


Sympathy for the Devil

by sodium_amytal



Series: Spooky 'Verse [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 1980s, Anxiety, Cryptids, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, F/M, Gen, Graphic Violence, Horror, Mystery, Serial Killers, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:01:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 59,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27702464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodium_amytal/pseuds/sodium_amytal
Summary: One fateful night, Roger Cowell picked up a female hitchhiker outside of a Washington state park: a decision he’d regret for the rest of his life. When the girl turned up dead, Roger tried to help the police but instead found himself accused of her murder and thrown into his worst nightmare. Now, the media firestorm around Roger has ruined his life. His dreams of a law career destroyed, an unemployed and disgraced Roger can’t find much inspiration to do anything—that is, until he meets Meg at his sister’s wedding. Meg is bright and beautiful and might be the only person who can help Roger find the killer and a second chance at life.With his world coming apart at the seams, Roger must investigate for himself and follow the strange, incongruous clues that point to something more sinister than a serial killer. As Roger uncovers the truth, the killer is closing in on Roger and everyone he cares about.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: Spooky 'Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026024
Kudos: 5
Collections: Big FEAR 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Roger's playlist link](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7gHsIuW9ARIzVMLXpEUCxA)   
>  [Meg's playlist link](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2tk5mc6wYhBJN1plxm17oP)

“ _I swear, from the bottom of my heart, I want to be healed. I want to be like other men, not this outcast who nobody wants._ ” ~ E.M. Forster

* * *

_July 1984_

The phone is a shotgun that blasts Roger awake. His brain is wrecked and hung over, his eyes throbbing like bruised testicles. He fumbles for the receiver and answers with a croaked, “Hello?”

“If you miss my wedding, I’m punching you in the dick,” comes the voice of Roger's sister, Stephanie. For the past two weeks, she has called him almost daily to remind him about the wedding. It’s getting ridiculous.

Roger groans, lying back on the bed. Stephanie sent out embossed wedding invitations three months ago, but Roger had been preoccupied as the media’s whipping boy. He'd made a note to respond and then promptly forgotten, too caught up in the slow imploding of his own life.

“Go ahead. Not like I’m using it anyway.”

Stephanie sighs a tight, exasperated sound. “Just do this one thing for me, please? I’ll even give you the rest of the cake, if there’s anything left.”

Roger scrubs a hand over his face, trying to wake himself up from the foggy haze of sleep. Stephanie is engaged to Ken Roseland, a vague acquaintance of Roger’s in high school. They had both run in similar circles—student government, yearbook staff—but never formed that close of a friendship. Roger’s primary recollections of Ken include him pining over Stephanie and gazing at her dreamily from his seat behind her in Algebra. Last Thanksgiving, Ken yapped for thirty minutes about wanting to buy a time-share condo on Bainbridge Island, then later in the kitchen Roger saw him groping Stephanie's ass while she scrubbed the dishes, her gloved hands submerged in suds.

“I can’t wait.”

“So you’re coming, then?” Stephanie asks. Roger can almost see her twirling the phone cord around her finger and snapping her bubble gum in that obnoxious way of hers.

There are severe physical injuries Roger would rather endure than appear in public. Peeling off his own fingernails, for starters. Since the incident, he’s had a long history of waking up late and blowing things off. He flunked his spring semester of college by accumulating absences. He missed Stephanie’s engagement party, preferring the familiar comfort of alcohol and his own depression. So while her micromanaging is annoying, he understands where she’s coming from. It must be difficult, having a dead-weight sibling with easy access to booze and pills.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” he promises. “It’s today, right?”

“Madison Park Beach at noon.”

Roger glances at the bedside clock. The screaming neon red numbers read 8:51 a.m. “I’ll be there with bells on.”

“Don’t wear bells. This is my day to have everyone’s attention,” Stephanie says, then promptly hangs up.

Roger chuckles mirthlessly. No one will pay attention to the bride when Roger Cowell, accused murderer, shows up to the wedding.

Sluggish and sleepy, Roger fumbles for the television remote on the night table. He switches on the TV to be greeted with the morning weather forecast. Roger would be lying if he said he hasn’t had fantasies featuring KIRO 7’s weather girl. She is tall and lean and pretty, with long brown hair and a button nose. Even dressed in the somewhat conservative clothes required by morning news personnel, she looks youthful and vivacious. Something about her arouses a primal desire with him, fueled in no way by his sexual drought since his arrest last year. 

He tries to will himself out of bed, to summon the energy required to exist, to get up and dressed and eventually head to the wedding. But dread has pinned him to the mattress, as though thick black sludge has clogged his veins. He can’t stop thinking about how fucking suffocating the wedding will be, how he will be interrogated about the trial and torn apart by a public who still considers him a murderer despite no charges ever being filed. How Stephanie's bridesmaids will whisper to each other when they think he’s out of earshot: _I can’t believe she invited him, he’s crazy, he could kill her next._ How his parents will suffer watching their son being publically shunned. Roger will leave the beach feeling depressed and depleted, even more so than he feels now.

A brisk knock sounds at the door of his apartment. Instinctively, Roger reaches for the baseball bat he keeps underneath his bed for protection. At almost nine in the morning, it’s not exactly too early for a well-intentioned visitor, but that’s just what they’d be counting on, isn’t it? He has no idea who “they” are, but he grapples with a constant fear some shadowy figure will appear at his doorstep one day to dispense some street justice. So he might as well be prepared.

With the bat clenched in his hands, Roger moves toward the door. He debates calling out “who’s there,” as it could be a harmless delivery man or a neighbor seeking a cup of sugar. But if the person on the other side of the door intends to hurt him, giving away the fact that he’s inside would be a bone-headed move. So Roger peers through the peephole just as another knock clatters against the door. He jerks back at the sound, but his brain has already recognized the face of the person standing there.

Roger unlocks the door and pulls it open. “Stephanie, what the fuck?”

Stephanie lets herself in as though she owns the place. She stops her stride when she notices the bat in Roger’s hands. “Heading for the batting cages?”

“Yeah, I’m the Mariners’ new center fielder.”

“Then you might wanna put on some clothes first, slugger,” Stephanie says, unfazed by his t-shirt and boxer shorts.

Roger grumbles to himself and returns the bat to its proper place under the bed.

Stephanie glances at the television. “Were you jerking off to the weather girl again?”

“I wasn’t—” Roger lets that one go. “What do you want?”

“I want you to come to the wedding.”

“I said I would, like, ten minutes ago. Why are you here?”

“To make sure you go through with it.” Stephanie throws open his closet door and sifts through his clothes with a practiced eye. Only Stephanie has the gall to treat him like this; thus she is the only person Roger has considered strangling on a somewhat frequent basis. He doesn’t know if this is fairly normal for siblings, or if this is just one more thing wrong with him.

“In light of recent events,” Roger says over the sliding and clashing of hangers, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to show up.”

Stephanie’s shuffling gains a bit of steam. “Fuck them. You’re my brother.”

“Yeah, exactly. It’s something people can ignore when it’s just you and them, but having me around is gonna affect their perception of you.”

“I didn’t invite anyone who thinks you’re guilty.” She pulls out a light blue suit from the closet and displays it. “Wear this.”

Roger shakes his head. “Too loud.”

“Too seventies,” Stephanie says as though reconsidering. She shelves the blue suit and goes in search of something else. “Besides, Dad won’t stand for anyone giving you grief on this, the day of his daughter’s wedding,” she says, doing her best Brando impersonation.

“He’s not Don Corleone. And he shouldn’t have to play referee on one of the happiest days of his life. Everything would be so much easier if I wasn’t around.”

Stephanie whirls to face him, her face contorted in anger and grief. “Don’t you say that! And don’t you dare pull that shit again.”

“This entire family has blown that way out of proportion,” Roger says with a sigh. “It was an accidental overdose.”

“Half a bottle isn’t an accident.”

“I was drunk!”

Stephanie inhales a breath, the way she does when she’s about to tear into him, but she simply lets it out and moves closer. She puts her hands on his shoulders and eases him onto the bed, sitting beside him. Her touch burns his skin, a side-effect of going so long without physical contact. “I wanted to keep this a surprise until you made it to the wedding, but what the hell. Meg will be there. She’s one of my bridesmaids.”

Roger gives her a blank look. The name isn’t familiar to him, but he’d almost forgotten about the wedding despite two weeks’ worth of reminders, so it’s a safe bet his memory isn’t super reliable.

“Meg Starke? The KIRO weather girl?” Stephanie throws out a hand in the direction of the TV, but the screen is showing a car commercial now.

“Bullshit. You don’t know someone on TV.” Though if anyone could, it would be Stephanie.

“We share an aerobics class. She’s very sweet. And limber.” Stephanie nudges him meaningfully.

“Are you trying to set me up?”

“What’s so wrong with that? When was the last time you even had a date?”

It’s one of the memories Roger wishes had crumbled into dust. Before the whole mess of the murder accusations and media firestorm, Roger had been dating Amy Ogden, a beautiful, intelligent upstart in the field of Washington state politics. She had loved him once, but considering how quickly she dumped him after he became a suspect, love probably didn’t factor into anything on her end. 

Stephanie grimaces a little, realizing the question has hit a sore spot. “Sorry. But you’ll never get anywhere else if you stay in the same place. It’s been a a few months since the whole thing. Maybe people have moved on and forgotten.”

Roger isn’t sure a highly-publicized murder is something people just _forget_ like a dentist’s appointment or the phone bill.

He wants to tell her that no one could ever love him now, that even if Meg likes him she will be bombarded with warnings by well-meaning friends and family. _Stay away from that one,_ they’ll tell her, and maybe they’ll check in a little more frequently than normal, and Roger will have to pretend like none of it bothers him, because if he gets angry at their intrusion and silent accusations it’s proof he’s somehow violent and will inevitably kill Meg and dump her body in the woods. But if he has no reaction at all, that will make him seem guilty too, because wouldn’t an innocent man be upset that his girlfriend’s friends think he’s a murderer? And that will leave him with no way to be at all.

It feels like even his familial relationships have also been poisoned by the gossip surrounding him, but for Stephanie to demand his presence at her wedding must mean not all love is lost between himself and his family. If she wants her brother at her wedding, then she’ll get him. 

* * *

The wedding is surprisingly understated for Stephanie’s extravagant tastes. Taking place along Madison Park Beach with a crowd of around fifty guests, it’s a bright, beautiful day for a wedding. Roger feels hot and overdressed in the light brown suit Stephanie picked out for him. He wanders across the grass until Mom and Dad hurry towards him, doing their best not to make a fuss. 

“Roger,” Mom coos, embracing him tightly. “So glad you could make it.” Elaine Cowell was somewhat of a beauty in her youth, and she has aged gracefully, her dark hair just beginning to show streaks of grey. She's wearing a red and white dress Dad bought her almost fifteen years ago for an anniversary. 

Roger hugs her, inhales the scent of her lavender shampoo. “I wouldn't miss it,” he lies. 

Mom pulls back a little and sniffs at him. “Are you drunk?”

“I may have had a drink or two before I left.”

Mom sighs a small sound of disappointment, as if about to say something well-meaning but insulting.

Dad cuts her off at the pass by moving in and hugging Roger. With his slicked-back hair, Dad looks the part of an aging ‘50s greaser, and if he could cut the sleeves off his three-piece suit, he would. “Hey, kid. Good to see you.” To say Johnny Cowell was destroyed by the rumors surrounding his son would be overly dramatic, but looking at him now it's hard to argue the allegations didn't age him. Dad's once-dark hair is also showing signs of grey, and the lines around his eyes are deeper and more plentiful. But there are creases around his mouth that Roger swears weren’t there before. 

Neither parent asks the inevitable follow-up questions: _how’s life been treating you?_ Or _what have you been up to since your suicide attempt?_ Either out of prudence or fear of a disappointing answer, Roger doesn’t know. In the arms of his father, Roger feels a jolt of something familiar: contentment? Love? Hope? He tries to hold on to it for just a while longer, but it’s gone, like ethereal wisps between his fingers as Dad lets him go.

“How ‘bout those Mariners?” Dad says. “I think they might have a shot this season.”

Baseball has a few months left until post-season, and it’s difficult to tell at this juncture which teams are headed for the World Series. But Roger knows Dad’s only trying to be friendly and get him talking. “If the Orioles play anything like they did last year, we’re in trouble.”

“Our pitching was garbage last season,” Dad agrees solemnly.

Led by his parents, Roger heads to the mass of white fold-out chairs set up on the grass. Guests mill about on the lawn, chatting and taking in the view of the water before the ceremony starts. Roger feels his nerves jangle, his stomach suddenly in his throat as though he’s dropped from the apex of a roller coaster. He breathes in deep, forcing the air down, focusing on the expansion and compression of his lungs and the duration of each breath, following the exhale to the very end. _It's been a month_ , he thinks, trying to convince himself with the same rationale Stephanie had used earlier. _Maybe people have moved on or moved away or just stopped giving a shit._ He knows this is wishful thinking, the kind of thing you'd tell a child so as not to disillusion them.

Since becoming a murder suspect, every trip to the grocery store or the mailbox has become a grueling obstacle course of hostility and gross fascination. Even here, he is treated like a social leper. He is acutely aware of harsh gazes and stares in his direction, the sharp-edged whispers of: _don’t look, but that’s him, can you believe Stephanie invited him?_

As though knowing exactly what he needs, Roger’s parents sit on either side of him like human shields. While Stephanie may have eliminated from the guest list anyone who might cause a scene, she couldn’t weed out people who would stare and whisper to each other when they saw Roger, not unless she wanted to scratch the whole list. He is a gruesome wreck on the highway, and people are helpless against their own human nature of rubbernecking.

The ceremony itself is very beautiful. Stephanie wears a long, flowing white dress with sleeves poofy enough to require their own zip code. Ken Roseland, clad in a simple black and white tux, still has his blonde pompadour and winning smile; he looks like he belongs in a British synthpop band like Duran Duran or Kajagoogoo. 

Roger recognizes Meg, the weather girl, in the line of bridesmaids. Like the others, she’s wearing a metallic silver and blue one-shouldered dress. Her hair is pulled up into a loose bun, wispy tendrils hanging down over her exposed collarbones. She’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen, and he has to divert his eyes, as though he’s corrupting her by the very act of looking at her.

The reception is held at a colorful pizzeria near the beach. Roger wants to head for the open bar, but his parents corral him to a table near the back. Stephanie and Ken are mingling with friends at other tables, so at least the guests’ focus is split down the middle between them and Roger. He is keenly aware of his pulse pounding in his throat. 

“Have you given any thought to going back to school in the fall?” Mom asks, delicately, like there’s a stick of dynamite strapped to the table and the slightest argument might detonate it.

Roger had been studying law at the University of Washington before his entire life was blown apart. He’d been about a year shy of getting his degree; at the time, a year seemed like a breeze. Now, it might as well be a decade. 

“You don’t have to go back, y’know,” Dad offers, as if attuned to Roger’s fears. “There are law schools all over the country who’d throw money at you to enroll.”

The thought of moving to another city or state is daunting and terrifying. While he may not be a social pariah in, say, Oregon or Florida, what’s to stop someone from digging up his past? And he would be alone there, without the comforting proximity of his family. As irritating as they can be sometimes, he knows they will not abandon him.

“It’s a lot to think about,” Roger says.

“What’s to think about? It’s one year,” Mom says. “I know the last few months have been hard, but lying in bed and doing nothing isn’t going to help.”

Dad gives her a pointed look, as if telling her to ease off. “Roger,” he says, “what your mother’s trying to say is we only want the best for you. We’re all hurting, but when a parent has to see their child in pain, knowing there’s nothing they can do…” His voice is raw with emotion, and Roger is momentarily uncomfortable, because Dad isn't known for open discussions of feelings. “I don’t know, maybe I could have done something.”

“Like what? Refuse to fix people's cars?” Roger doubts a mechanic would have been able to effectively protest this particular injustice. “There was nothing you could do. Don’t worry about it.”

Mom says, “If you need money for school, we’re happy to give.”

Roger shakes his head. “I can’t take your money.” At the beginning of the year, his parents put all their savings into a nice home in the mountains near Snoqualmie Ridge. While he doubts they’re financially hurting—with Mom being a juggernaut in the commercial real estate market—it seems unwise to take money that could go toward their mortgage or potential home repairs. 

Dad smiles wistfully. “You and your sister have always been stubborn. I guess it’s in the genes.”

Roger scans the crowd for a familiar face to bail him out of this conversation. He catches Ken’s eye and supposes that’s good enough. Ken grins and weaves through the aisles, sliding into the booth in the empty space beside Roger. “Well, hey! I’m so glad you came, Rog’!”

Roger grimaces at the nickname, but at least his parents aren’t nagging him about school anymore. “Blame your wife.” It feels weird referring to Stephanie as someone’s wife, when he’s always known her as his obnoxious older sister. “She barged in to my apartment and picked out my suit. I think she might have threatened me.”

Ken laughs. “That sounds like her.”

“You two never could make it five minutes without bickering,” Mom says to Roger with a shake of her head, as though wondering what sins she must have committed in a past life to deserve him as a son. “It's like you were born an old married couple.”

“No, that's not a weird thing to say about your kids at all,” Roger says, frowning.

Ken puts a hand on Roger’s shoulder. To his credit, Roger doesn’t shrug it off. “You don’t mind if I steal Roger for a minute, do you?”

“Go right ahead,” Mom says.

Ken leads Roger over to the bar, where Roger immediately orders a gin and tonic. The bartender either doesn’t recognize him or is hiding her animosity in hopes of a good tip. Ken and Roger sit side by side. Roger thanks Ken for bailing him out. “It was getting intense back there.”

Ken chuckles, like he doesn’t understand why Roger might feel suffocated. “Intense? They’re your parents. You and Steph could do a lot worse.”

Roger isn’t in the mood for a lecture about how he ought to be grateful for his parents; he is grateful, but that doesn’t negate any frustration they make him feel. “So if you weren’t rescuing me from them, what did you want?” He tries not to sound confrontational, but he’s out of practice. Every question sounds like an accusation.

The bartender serves Roger his drink—he paid careful attention that she didn’t spit in it—and he thanks her. He swallows down about half the glass and pointedly fixes his attention on the television hoisted over the bar. It’s a baseball game: Red Sox vs. Mariners. 3-3 tie.

Ken says, “You know Stephanie better than anyone, right?”

“I don’t think you can ever truly know anyone.”

“You know what I mean. Can you give me some advice on how to not screw this up?” Ken looks pathetic and pleading, and Roger almost feels bad for him, as much as he can feel bad for anyone who isn’t himself. 

“You want advice on keeping a good marriage? Ask my parents. As for Steph… she can be”—Roger searches for the word—”bossy. I’ve found it’s best to let her have her way on the small stuff. But navigating a sibling relationship and a marriage are two different things.”

Ken considers this, or maybe he’s just angling for a safe way to approach his next topic: “What happened between you and Amy?”

Roger glances away so Ken doesn’t see the pain that melts his features. “She couldn’t advance her career if she was involved with me. That’s something you have to be prepared for, you know. Being married to Stephanie makes you and me family. Can you handle being the brother-in-law of an accused murderer?”

Ken gives a dismissive laugh. “I know you didn’t do it. It doesn’t bother me.”

 _Of course it doesn’t,_ Roger thinks. _You’re not the one getting harangued in the produce section by huge mustachioed men ranting about how you “should get the electric chair for killing that girl.” You’re not getting ‘murderer’ keyed into the side of your precious white Mercury Capri. You’re not the one who thinks your entire family would be better off if you were dead._

“And I love Steph more than anything,” Ken’s saying, oblivious to Roger’s moment of disconnection.

“Then what do you need my advice for?” Roger says, trying for comfortable teasing but probably sounding too brash.

“Good point,” Ken says, jostling him with an elbow. He excuses himself and leaves Roger with his thoughts. Alone now, Roger tries to focus on the game and ignore the clinking of glasses, the tapping of silverware, the excited chatter going on around him. But the more he pinpoints his focus, the faster his heart begins to race. His palms sweat when laughter erupts from a table behind him.

_They’re all talking about you. They’re laughing at you. How dare you show your face here. Stephanie had to prune her guest list because of you. How many friends has she lost over those allegations? You ruin everything._

Roger downs the rest of his glass.

_Oh yeah, drink more, you stupid alcoholic. That’ll fix everything. Maybe you really did kill that girl and you just don’t remember because you were shitfaced._

Roger orders another drink.

_Mandy. Her name was Mandy Nelson, you selfish piece of shit. A young girl is murdered and all you can think of is how it affects you? You’re a piece of shit._

When Roger picks up the fresh glass, his hand is shaking. He swallows it in one long gulp.

“Mind if I join you?” One of the bridesmaids slides into the empty seat next to Roger. It’s Meg Starke, and somehow she is even more stunning up close, with perfect cheekbones and bright blue eyes.

For a moment Roger panics over how to respond. His charm is mostly off-the-cuff, successful in moments when he has nothing to prove and nothing at stake. But the charm doesn’t live here anymore, not since the Entity took over. Given that the voice in his head has taken up permanent residence there, it makes sense to give it a name. Maybe Roger will eventually make friends with the voice and give it a proper name, like Gary.

_She’s looking at you. Say something, you fucking moron._

“If you don’t mind sitting next to Seattle’s favorite pariah.”

_Way to go, dipshit. Downplay yourself. Girls love insecure men. You’re pushing her away. Which is good. Look what happens when you don’t. People get hurt. Mandy. Amy. Your parents. Even Stephanie._

“I don’t mind sitting next to Stephanie’s brother,” Meg says, correcting him. “She talks about you all the time. It’s great to finally meet you!”

Roger glances around to see if anyone’s staring at them. Surely someone must have noticed the gorgeous young weathergirl talking with the accused murderer. But everyone seems wrapped up in their own conversations and lavishing attention on the new bride and groom. 

“I’m Meg, by the way,” she says, as though suddenly remembering he might not know her name. The bartender flits over to them, and Meg orders what sounds like six drinks but turns out to be just one. It’s an orange concoction served in a martini glass with a tiny straw and a paper umbrella. She takes a sip and says, “I’m starving. Do you mind if we get a table and order something?”

Roger tells her that he doesn’t, so they take up a table near the entrance—so Roger can flee if necessary. Meg orders a pizza with fontina cheese, crimini mushrooms, and sage. She stirs her drink with her straw. “Stephanie tells me you’re a lawyer?”

“Law student,” Roger corrects.

“You go to UW?”

“I did.”

_Oh, that’s great. Just tell her you’re a dropout with zero life prospects. Real sexy. Idiot._

“Where did you go to school?” Roger asks, hoping to distract her from that disastrous answer.

“Florida State.”

“How’d you end up here?”

“Well, I grew up in Seattle. But I got a scholarship to go to FSU, so I moved there ‘til I graduated and came back here.”

“You miss it.” It’s not a question.

Meg gives him a sad smile. “I loved Tallahassee. You don’t realize how dreary this place is until you’ve been in the literal Sunshine State for four years.”

“Why’d you leave?”

“My dad works at KIRO, and he said he could get me the job as the weather presenter if I wanted it. The pay is good, but I think he was just lonely and wanted me back home. Since my parents split up, he probably wanted someone around, and I don’t have any siblings to fill that role, so…” She shrugs into silence, takes a long sip. “Can I be honest with you?”

Roger’s flattered she wants to tell him something personal. “I wouldn’t want you to be anything else.”

“I feel like a fraud. I mean, I’m not a real weather forecaster or anything. The only reason I even have this job is because the woman who did it before went on maternity leave. And our in-house forecaster isn’t what you’d call the photogenic type. I just read stuff off a teleprompter and point to a map.”

Meg’s confession disarms Roger a little, helping to put them both on common ground. “If that makes you a fraud, then what about the newscasters? All they do is sit at a desk and read off a teleprompter. At least you get to point at stuff.”

Meg laughs; it’s an enchanting sound. “I guess the job does have its perks.”

The pizza arrives, and Roger carefully scrutinizes it to ensure there are no sprinklings of saliva… or worse.

“What are you doing?” Meg wonders. It’s an understandable question. He probably looks like a maniac.

“Being careful.” He tilts his head, lifts the pizza with his knife to view it from a different angle against the light. “I made the mistake of going out to eat about a week or so after… Somebody spit on my burger.”

Meg screws up her face in disgust. “That’s horrible!”

“So you can understand if I’m a little paranoid.”

“Sure, but I work for one of Seattle’s biggest news stations. Even a whiff of a scandal like that and the health inspectors would be all over this place.”

Roger looks at her, cocks an eyebrow. “More perks.”

She laughs again, and Roger wants to hear that sound for the rest of his life. Deeming the pizza safe, Meg takes a slice. “Stephanie told me you were funny.”

“She did?” Roger can’t picture Stephanie talking about him enough that Meg would remember any of it.

“Well, she said you were funny sometimes. I guess you haven’t found much to laugh about lately. But I don’t think you did it.”

A bolt of optimism strikes Roger's heart without permission. He scrutinizes Meg’s face, searching for a sign of dishonesty. “What?”

Meg lowers her already-soft voice, leaning forward a bit. “I don’t think you killed that girl.” She watches his expression shift into suspicion. “You looked nervous, like you were waiting for me to bring it up, so I wanted to put you at ease.”

“By lying to me?”

“I’m not lying. And sure, that’s probably exactly what I’d say if I was. But why would I lie? What would I get out of it?”

“Information. A ‘scoop,’” he says, using air-quotes.

“I’m not a journalist, remember?”

“Sure, but they know I’d smell a journalist a mile away. So they send in someone friendly and disarming who could leak information. Let’s not forget you work for a news station.”

Meg doesn’t get angry or exasperated with him like he thought she might. “Slow down, Roger.” She looks at him with a gaze Roger hasn’t seen in quite a while: the look of a friend. “I didn’t come here to play wannabe journalist or anything. I’m here as Steph’s friend, remember? If it makes you feel safer, you can search me for a wire or recorder, or whatever you think I’m hiding.”

Roger knows better than to respond to that. As if he could actually take her up on the offer.

“But my job or where I work has nothing to do with why I’m here. I’m just a bridesmaid,” Meg says, making no move to keep Roger from leaving if he chooses to do so.

Roger supposes there’s no harm in talking to her as long as he doesn’t answer any questions about the miserable debacle. 

Meg says, “Can I tell you a story? I know it’s gonna sound stupid, and I’m not trying to say what happened to me and what happened to you are the same, ‘cause I know it’s not. I guess I just want you to see where I’m coming from.”

Roger takes a slice of pizza for himself. Lately, he feels more in control when his hands are occupied. “The floor is yours.”

“During my senior year at FSU, I had this friend. Let’s call her Liz. She had transferred from UCF, and we liked the same things and had a few classes together, so we got along pretty well. I even invited her to join my sorority.”

Roger waits for the gut punch. He knows it’s coming. He wants to hear how badly Meg has been hurt. Not that he takes pleasure in someone’s suffering, but it would be nice to have someone who at least comes close to understanding his plight.

Meg tucks a tendril of hair behind her ear, and this movement jostles a shiny pink earring. “One of the classes I shared with Liz was a journalism class. So obviously we did a lot of papers and writing assignments. Our professor seemed to like what I was writing, and sometimes she’d use my assignments as examples for how to structure an essay or use transition sentences, y’know, stuff like that.” She takes a bite of pizza, chews slowly and swallows. “For our final, we had to write about the Vietnam War. I focused on how the cultural differences between the Americans and the Vietnamese contributed to the conflict.” Her voice turns hard. “So imagine my surprise when Liz and I turn in the same paper.”

Roger mulls that over around a mouthful of delicious pizza. “She stole your paper? How?”

“Well, we were friends. And there were nights when my roommate would be out partying or visiting her boyfriend, and I’d invite Liz over for a study night.” A scowl crosses Meg’s face. “The night before the paper was due, we were up late working on it. I fell asleep after I finished mine, and Liz must have copied it by hand. So we both turn in the same paper, but I’m the one who gets slammed for plagiarism.”

That takes Roger by surprise. “Didn’t the professor brag about your writing?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you the most important part. Liz’s parents were super rich and donated money to a bunch of Florida colleges every year. If they flunked Liz for plagiarism, she’d whine and cry to Mommy and Daddy, and they’d threaten to pull their yearly charity to the school unless she got a passing grade. So they flunked me, and I had to graduate a semester late because of her.” Meg’s jaw tightens, and Roger almost fears she’ll break a tooth. “And of course it went on my record, so my next professor knew I was retaking that journalism class because I allegedly plagiarized my final paper. And that made him scrutinize me harder than anyone else in the class.” Her hands ball into fists, and she exhales an angry breath. She looks at Roger, and her expression softens, like she doesn’t think she has the right to be angry in front of someone who has arguably suffered worse. “I know it’s stupid. But at the very least, I know a little bit about the Scarlet Letter treatment.”

“What an awful thing to have in common,” Roger says.

Meg shrugs a sun-kissed shoulder. “I guess that’s part of the reason I came back here: to lick my wounds. To be around people who know I have a good heart.”

 _She made that whole thing up,_ the Entity tells him. _You think a girl this beautiful has any idea what it’s like to be cast out and demonized?_

But Roger’s gut tells him Meg’s anecdote wasn’t a fabrication. There was a ring of truth to it, and something about her reactions to talking about the details seemed authentic. “Considering this is the first time I’ve talked to a girl who wasn’t bagging my groceries or serving me drinks, I’d say we’re doing pretty well.”

“Your sister doesn’t count?”

“She’s family,” Roger says, dismissive. He takes a bite of pizza and wonders how to fill the gap in their conversation. Meg’s fingers play with the stem of her glass, and Roger is temporarily entranced. Suddenly, Meg’s attention diverts to something—or someone—behind him. He turns his head to look.

A breaking news report has replaced the Mariners game on the TV. A missing girl. Susan Thompson. A young, beautiful brunette. Her portrait is shown alongside the grim-faced news reporter. The sound is off, but everyone can read the bright blaring text underneath the girl’s picture: _missing._

Fear grows inside of Roger, heating to a boil. About half of the heads in the restaurant turn to seek him out, glancing at the guilty-looking son of a bitch in their midst. He feels the prickle of their eyes on him. His ears, finely attuned to gossip, pick up the soft sounds of murmurs and whispers.

Roger is still watching the news report. He should stop. People will make something of that, use it as evidence against him in a silent, unwinnable trial in their minds. He quickly looks away.

“You alright?” Meg asks, but her voice is distant, like Roger is submerged in water. A creeping cold crawls over him, the familiar chill he gets when he's terrified. The room suddenly feels cramped. A cage. 

A prison.

“I—I have to go,” Roger tells Meg, his voice shaking like a fault line. He leaves, almost running out of the restaurant, gasping for air. It takes him a couple tries to get the key into the driver’s side door of the Impala, but he manages. He gets onto the road and heads for home. His breath hitches in quick bursts until he’s sobbing aloud.

 _Boo fucking hoo_ ,the Entity sneers, _what are you crying about? You didn’t lose anybody. According to the public, you got away with murder. You’re the luckiest motherfucker alive._

Roger can’t even argue with the voice. His thoughts are fuzzy television static, but he’s aware he’s only operating the car on auto-pilot. He can’t drive like this.

Roger pulls over to the shoulder of the road to let the terror pass. He throws himself over the steering wheel, and his gasps for breath give way to deep sobs.

_Stop it. Stop crying. You’re making a fool of yourself. You’re not even pulled off the highway, for fuck’s sake. You’re on a neighborhood through road, and all the suburban housewives are looking at you through the blinds and wondering who the sobbing moron is in his antique car. Until they recognize you and call the cops._

Roger’s sobs turn to hiccups as he tries to regain control of his breathing. But he can’t stop. Everything that’s been slowly leaking out of him since the allegations has combusted. His limbs feel both tense and limp, his heart hammering behind his ribs.

_This is how it’s going to be. Forever. Get used to it, kid._

He cries for what feels like years, until his throat burns with fire. When his chest is empty and hollow, when his breathing is stable again, Roger starts the car and heads home.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning comes with an overwhelming despair at being alive. Roger stirs in his bed, his limbs displacing the empty beer cans discarded across the comforter. The TV is on, playing some mindless daytime talk show. With a groan, he looks at the clock. 3 p.m. Where does the time go, he wonders. 

After his anxiety attack, Roger decided the safest course of action was returning home and drowning his sorrows. Maybe he could have gone back inside the restaurant and pretend he didn’t flee the place like a crazy man, but everyone would be looking at him, and half the restaurant had already been stealing discreet glances. He would have to explain, at least to Meg or his family, why he ran out so suddenly.

_I just had to have a freakout. Doesn’t everyone?_

He would have stolen the attention away from Stephanie on her wedding day. Maybe even embarrassed her. No, Roger couldn’t have that. He’d much rather hide away and retreat into the safety of his blankets. At least his bed doesn’t think he’s a murderer. Way to be a pal, Bed. 

A sudden noise from outside startles him. A knock. Then a female voice. “Roger? Are you home?” He recognizes Meg’s voice. What the hell is going on? “I see your car out here,” Meg says. “So you’re either dead or just not answering. I really hope you’re not dead.”

Before he can talk himself out of it, Roger slides out of bed and opens the door. Meg’s smile is overwhelming. No one has ever looked so happy to see him, especially lately. “There you are! I’m so glad you answered. I’ve been knocking for about a minute or two. Your neighbors probably think I’m nuts.”

Roger rubs his sleepy eyes. “I’m sorry, why are you here? How did you find me?” 

“Your sister. Duh,” Meg says good-naturedly. “And I’m here ‘cause we didn’t get to finish our conversation yesterday. Also I wanted to see if you were okay. People generally don’t _escape_ from conversations unless something’s wrong.”

“Did Stephanie put you up to this?”

“No.” A subtle frown crosses Meg’s face, as if she’s finally getting irritated by his constant negativity about her intentions. “Can I come in?”

It’s only now Roger realizes he’s wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts again, but Meg hasn’t brought it up, so maybe he can just pretend that answering the door in his underwear isn’t part of his life now. Roger lets her inside, even as his brain screams at him to turn her away. _Your life is pathetic and sad. And you want her to see it? Are you insane?_

Meg looks around, appraising, and Roger appraises her. She’s wearing a cream-colored suit, her skirt stopping a little above the knee. Half of her hair is neatly pulled up, the rest hanging free down her back. She looks as if she’s just left work, like she came straight here to see him. “Why don’t you get dressed so we can grab an early dinner?” Meg suggests. “Do you like sushi?”

Roger feels like he’s walked into a movie fifteen minutes late. He has no idea what’s going on or why this is even happening to him. “Uh…”

“It’s okay. Sushi’s not for everyone. What about Mexican?”

“Why do we have to go somewhere?” Roger asks, still hazy.

“Because I’m hungry, and it doesn’t seem like you’re the cooking type.”

Roger glances around at the depressing state of his apartment. “I used to be,” he murmurs.

“Well, we can work on that later. Food now.”

It doesn’t seem like Roger’s going to be able to argue with Meg. And why would he want to? Just so he can go back to being sad and drunk? At least Meg offers the possibility of a smile, maybe even a laugh.

“Alright,” Roger says as he heads for his closet, “but I don’t want to go out.” The last time he ventured from the safe zone of his apartment, he’d humiliated himself in front of his sister’s friends. No fucking thanks.

This declaration sets Meg back only for a moment. She rebounds almost immediately, practically gliding over to his fridge and removing a take-out menu displayed there. “No problem. We can order in.”

Roger hesitates for a few seconds.

“Oh, don’t worry. Since I barged in here and demanded you have dinner with me, it’s my treat.”

_Your first date in God knows how long, and she’s already footing the bill and making you put on pants? You’re a real catch._

_Shutupshutupshutup,_ Roger thinks back, trying to shout down the Entity with his own thoughts. _Can I just have one fucking nice thing, please?_

Thirty minutes later, they’re sitting on the couch with a buffet of Chinese takeout containers spread across the coffee table. There is shrimp fried rice, sesame chicken, beef lo mein, and egg rolls, along with cold cans of Diet Coke. Meg sits beside him on the couch, close and seemingly unafraid of their proximity. She has kicked off her shoes underneath the table, her slender legs drawn up underneath her as she faces him. The TV is in Roger’s bedroom, so the two of them must make conversation without the distraction of a game show or sitcom. The weight of this intimacy frightens Roger. He hasn’t been this close to a non-family member since Amy. 

“If you could eat just one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?” Meg asks.

Roger thinks for a moment and finds that he has no idea. “I don’t know. What about you?”

“Probably that crab casserole they have at Chinese buffets. Or the Cubano.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that.”

“Oh, it’s amazing. It’s basically a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, but with pickles and mustard and Swiss cheese and roast pork. But they’re hard to make at home because the ingredients need to be just right: a special kind of bread, a certain kind of ham. You find them all over in Florida. Almost every city has a different way of making them. Here, not so much.” Meg spears a piece of sesame chicken with her fork. “You said you used to cook. What did you like to make?”

Roger studies the food on his plate, mildly afraid to make eye contact with Meg, as though she might see right through him. “Italian food, mostly. When I was growing up, my family and I lived in a neighborhood of Italians, and my mother’s friends were always giving her recipes. She used to make this really great spaghetti carbonara. Every time I made it, I felt like I was back home and twelve years old again.”

Meg smiles like this story has genuinely warmed her. “That’s really sweet. You get along with your parents?”

“Yeah, they’ve been wonderful. I couldn’t ask for a better family.”

Roger notices that Meg’s attention has snagged on him, more specifically his arm. He follows her gaze and, in horror, sees the ridge of hardening tissue that has caught her attention. His scar. Because they’d stayed inside, he’d forgotten to cover it when he changed clothes. Withdrawing his arm now would only look suspicious, but he feels heat raging along the pink seam from the force of her focus.

“What happened?” Meg asks in the gentlest voice he’s ever heard. She reaches out with a finger and traces over the scar. Roger’s arm flinches, instinctively wanting to jerk away, but he stops himself.

His throat is dry, so the words stick there for a moment. “When I was in jail, some asshole took a swing at me with a shiv in the middle of the night.”

Something changes in Meg’s eyes. Her expression is reminiscent of pity, but worse, somehow. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s alright. This is who I am. And there’s something tragic about seeing someone as they really are. It ruins them.”

Meg frowns in disagreement. “I don’t think that’s true. I think it makes them more human. It’s how you get to see that everyone’s struggling with the same things.”

Roger wonders what Meg is struggling with.

“Can I ask why you ran out yesterday?”

“Weren’t you paying attention? Everyone thinks I’m a murderer.”

“I don’t,” Meg says, sounding hurt. “If I did, do you think I would’ve come here alone?”

Roger has to admit she has a point. He is loath to show his weakness to anyone, let alone admit it, but right now his craving for intimacy is stronger than his fear of rejection. The fact that Meg has revealed some of her own vulnerability helps, too. “I had a panic attack. That’s why I left.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m just tired,” Roger says, still sluggish in the post-panic crash. During an anxiety attack, the body assumes it’s about to be murdered, and every system goes into overdrive. The heart speeds up. Breathing quickens. Blood pumps faster. Tunnel vision takes over. The adrenal glands squeeze out epinephrine. Adrenaline can carry you for a while, but the crash is hard and exhausting.

Meg takes a few bites from her plate, and Roger does his best not to study her as she does it. “I know it’s probably the last thing you wanna talk about—and you don’t have to—but I kinda want to hear your side of the story.”

“You said you didn’t think I did it.”

Meg gives him a flirtatious smile. “Don’t try to trick me, Mr. Law Student.”

“Where do you want me to start?”

“I know you picked up a hitchhiker, but everything after that is sort of a question mark.”

“Well, it goes pretty much the way you read. Except for me being the killer.” He’s being evasive, and he can tell that she senses it.

Meg plucks an eggroll from the takeout boxes on the table. Her nails are painted hot pink. “Did you really call the tip hotline, or was that made up?”

Roger shakes his head. “No, I was really that stupid.” The morning after he’d taken Mandy Nelson to her apartment, he saw her picture on the news. The police were looking for leads on who had killed her. Roger placed a call to the tip line and told them what he knew: that he had picked her up outside of Lake Sunderstone State Park, that they’d gone to a diner off I-90 around 8:30 p.m. He told them that Mandy had said one of her male friends was sexually aggressive with her, and that was why she’d been hitching a ride; she didn’t want to ride home with him. Roger told them he dropped her off at her apartment around 9:30 p.m. He gave them his name and number like a good citizen, in case they wanted to follow up with him. Unfortunately, they did.

“And the diner thing?” Meg asks, not unkindly.

Roger’s cheeks heat up incriminatingly. “She said she was hungry. I thought it was the neighborly thing to do, you know. It was a public place—the waitress said she remembered serving us when the police interviewed her. If I was planning something untoward, would I have made sure I was seen in public with her?”

Meg nods, encouraging. “That never made sense to me.”

Though the media had thoroughly chewed that one over; Amy, Roger’s girlfriend at the time, was in San Francisco for the Democratic State Committee. Roger had been staying at her house in West Bellevue, which wasn’t too far of a drive from Mandy’s apartment. The insinuation that he might have been looking to cheat was raised by the media talking heads, as if the only reasons to pick up a hitchhiker were nefarious.

“I was just so stupid,” Roger laments. “I thought I would be fine because I hadn’t done anything wrong. I knew innocent people got railroaded by the justice system all the time, but for some reason I just didn’t think that would happen to me. I shouldn’t have let them search my car, but what choice did I have? If I said no and called for a lawyer, it would look like I was trying to hide something. And the fact that they already knew she was in my car meant a search warrant would get signed as soon as it hit the judge’s desk.”

Roger had kept a lot of miscellaneous items in the trunk of his car, but the cops zeroed in on a rope, a crowbar, and a ski mask. He had honest reasons for having those things—the rope was from a raft he often used at the lake, the crowbar was to open the hood and trunk of his car when they got stuck in the cold, and the ski mask he wore while shoveling snow—but in the context of Mandy’s murder they looked suspicious. The items were collected as evidence, and the police took strands of Mandy’s hair from Roger’s car. A neighbor claimed to have seen a man entering Mandy’s apartment around 12:30, the time of the murder. They brought Roger into a line-up, and the neighbor picked him out as the man she saw that night, though the rest of the line-up was varied enough to be unfair—almost like the police wanted her to identify him. Since Roger had no alibi for the time of the murder, he was the prime suspect. He spent about forty-eight hours in jail until his attorney managed to get him out. The evidence was all circumstantial, and the police knew it, which was probably why he was never charged. 

“Have you thought about trying to find the real killer?” Meg asks. “Clear your name, all that good stuff.”

Roger shrugs lamely. “If the police couldn’t find any evidence that pointed to someone else, what good would I do? Some cases never get solved.”

“So they just get away with it?”

“Yeah, just like Liz got away with stealing your paper. The world isn’t fair, Meg.”

“Then isn’t it our job to make it fair? Isn’t that why you wanted to be a lawyer? To make a difference?”

“How can you be so foolishly optimistic after what happened to you?”

Meg frowns at him. “I don’t think it’s foolish to believe things can be good. What’s foolish is thinking there’s nothing worth waking up for at all.”

“I know, I know, ‘stop feeling sorry for yourself and pull your shit together.’ I’ve heard it all before.”

Meg seems to understand there are walls going up, and to her credit she shifts the conversation elsewhere. “What’s your middle name?” At Roger’s look of confusion, she adds, “You can tell a lot about a person by their middle name.”

“Really?”

“No, but as long as we’re getting to know each other, why not?” Meg is interested in him, yet she doesn’t come across as a vampire eager to feed on his sadness. 

Appreciative of her candor, Roger confesses, “Theodore.”

Meg snickers. “ _Ted_.”

Roger scowls, his brow furrowing, and he feels the lines forming there. “Ted sounds like the obnoxious guy at the office who hosts barbecues in his backyard and wears an apron with something stupid written across the front, like ‘kiss the cook’ or ‘licensed to grill.’”

“You look like a Ted.”

“Now you’re just being cruel.”

Meg giggles, touching his wrist, and his skin burns. 

“Your turn,” Roger says.

“Lydia.” Meg rolls her eyes. “I’ll take ‘female vampire names’ for $100, Alex.”

Roger hears himself laugh, and the sound sort of startles him. How long has it been since he genuinely laughed at something without any bitter undertones?

“You have a cute laugh,” Meg says. “Trim off some of that scruff and you’d be the most popular guy at the singles bar. What happened to your girlfriend?”

_Isn’t it obvious_ , Roger wonders; he is torn between finding Meg’s naivete charming or insulting. “She was an aspiring politician; she couldn’t be slumming with a murder suspect.”

“That’s awful,” Meg says, like she can feel the frustration churning inside of Roger.

“I found myself thinking about her a lot yesterday,” Roger says. “I always imagined I’d marry her eventually. I still can’t grasp the idea that it’s never going to happen.”

“Not with her, but someone else. There’s always someone else, even if you think there won’t be.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Actually, yes,” Meg says. 

_Maybe for you,_ Roger thinks, _a beautiful young woman, but us accused murderers don’t often get second chances._

“Have you talked to her at all since the breakup?”

Roger shakes his head. “If I heard her voice again, it would all come back. I don’t think I could handle another rejection. Not from her.”

“I can get together with Stephanie, and we can set you up with someone, or take you to a singles meet if you want,” Meg suggests.

The idea of moving past Amy without any real sense of closure is almost offensive to Roger. He looks at Meg, imploring. “Do you think she’d love me again if I sent her a dozen red roses?”

“She didn’t stand by you when things got tough,” Meg says with an almost pitying gaze. “She cared more about her reputation than she cared about you.”

Roger winces inwardly at her words. On some unspoken level, he knows Meg is right. But he also knows it’s impossible to simply flip a switch and stop caring about someone. Just as he can’t abandon his feelings for Amy, neither can Amy drop the love she once had for Roger. If there’s any chance he might excavate it, he’ll take it. Meg’s appearance in Roger’s life has given him a temporary boost of self-confidence. If this girl can find compassion and perhaps friendship for him, is it that much of a stretch to think Amy might be able to rediscover her feelings for Roger?

Assuming Roger’s hesitation is indecision, Meg reaches into the space between them and places her hand over his own. “I want you to make me a promise, okay? I want you to promise me that you’ll accomplish one thing each day and tell me about it. It can be getting out of bed and getting dressed, or cleaning out the closet, or taking a shower, or going to the store. Just one step a day towards rebuilding your life.”

“Things won’t go back to the way they were.”

“That doesn’t mean they can’t be good again. You just have to try.”

Meg means well, but she’s missing the point. Checking off a daily to-do list isn’t going to somehow make Roger okay with the fact that his life is irreversibly fucked. He has no reason to get out of bed in the morning when everyone in the state of Washington thinks he’s a killer, and he’s wasted years of his life on a degree he couldn’t use even if he had it, because no one wants to hire a lawyer who’s been accused of murder. 

“Meg…”

“Please?” Meg bats her lashes at him, her blue eyes pleading. 

This magnificent girl sees something redeemable within Roger, something worth saving. He thinks about that for a moment. “Okay,” he says, wondering just what the hell he’s getting himself into.


	3. Chapter 3

Meg’s visit unearths a disturbing dream from the dusty corners of Roger’s psyche. In it, Roger sees the woods, and mangled bodies lost in the endless maze of trees. A man emerges from the shadows. As Roger moves closer, he sees himself amongst the dreary wood clutching a bloodied crowbar. 

“Not too shabby, huh?” his reflection says.

Roger looks at the battered bodies. “Did you kill all these people?”

“It was a team effort.” His mirror image examines the crowbar and slings something grey and pink off the end. 

Roger looks at his own hands. His knuckles are bruised, his palms suddenly covered in blood. “No. I didn’t do this. I’m not a murderer.”

His doppelganger scoffs and smirks, eyes as black as a demon’s. “What’s one less person on the face of the earth anyway?” In an instant, he is at Roger’s side, slinging an arm across his shoulders as though they’re the best of friends. “C’mon, we’ve got work to do.”

Roger wakes up terrified, panic seizing his chest. It’s 3 a.m. He lies back down and tries to catch his breath. The longer he’s awake, the faster the dream dissipates like rising smoke. Once his heart rate and breathing have calmed, he falls back into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

In the morning, Roger lies awake in bed for an hour before forcing himself to make breakfast. He switches on the television to combat the stifling silence in his apartment. Time for _The Price is Right_.

As Roger reaches for the refrigerator door handle, his gaze snags on a photograph held to the freezer by a magnet. The photo is a static capture of a moment in which Roger had been truly happy. It had been used in news reports about the murder to juxtapose the brutality of the crime against his Ken-doll good looks. But that’s not what makes Roger’s knees buckle. What pierces his heart when he looks at the picture is the beautiful woman standing beside him in the photo.

Amy.

The picture had been taken at a Christmas party hosted by Amy’s family. December 1982. Roger remembers how Amy had coached him during the drive to her parents’ Bellevue estate. “Don’t talk to my parents about politics,” she advised, driving the two of them in her Porsche, since she had deemed Roger’s Impala too aggressive. “And if anyone asks what your parents do for a living, say they’re surgeons at St. Joseph. And try to sound a little more”—she searched for the word—”refined. You have a hint of a drawl. I find it charming, but my parents won’t.”

It had always bothered Roger that Amy insisted he lie about his past and manufacture some false personality for the sake of impressing her parents and social circle. But he loved her. He still does. He’d gladly shed parts of himself if it meant being with her.

Roger reaches out and traces Amy’s face with his finger. They had good memories too: candle-lit dinners at fancy restaurants and each other’s apartments, picnics on campus underneath the cherry blossom trees, Christmas shopping for their friends and families.

Forgoing breakfast, Roger finds the phone and dials the number he knows by heart. After two rings, Amy’s voice settles in Roger’s ear for the first time in almost three months. “Hello?”

He hangs up. She’s home.

Five minutes later, Roger is dressed and out the door, headed toward what he knows is the worst possible place he could be right now.

Amy’s house in West Bellevue is just a short drive from the waters of Lake Washington. The three-story Tudor looks the same as it had the last time Roger was here four months ago, though the front yard is impeccably landscaped with new flowers and trees. Roger used to imagine living here, sharing this enormous mansion with Amy and a couple of their children. He would have repainted and remodeled the upstairs bedrooms for the kids, would have fixed the water heater when it stopped working in the winter, would have fished Amy’s wedding ring out of the pipes when she accidentally lost it while washing dishes. He would have been a remarkable husband and father.

Roger should call Meg so she can tell him how much of an idiot he’s being. Maybe he’d listen to her. But his feet carry him to the front door, then he’s ringing the bell, and the familiar chime buries an invisible knife in his chest.

After what feels like the longest twenty seconds of Roger’s life, Amy swings open the door. She’s wearing dark slacks and a loosely buttoned white blouse that’s so thin it’s almost see-through. Her long brown hair is mussed, like she’s been interrupted from sleep. She takes a breath—preparing to yell at him?—but the surprise on her perfect face is obvious. “Roger? What the hell are you doing here?”

The question of the century. Roger’s just as clueless as Amy. He should have planned this better. “It’s been a while,” he says, trying a light smile. “How have you been?”

“I’m an aide to Mayor Kissel.” There’s a coldness to her tone that wasn’t there before. Or maybe he’s fooling himself. Regardless, the sound of her voice makes Roger’s skin warm.

“Really? That’s great. I’m happy for you.” Though Roger wonders if Amy actually earned the position, or if her family’s wealth helped her land that particular job.

“Are we going to keep up the pointless small talk, or are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

Her pointed tone makes Roger’s bowels shrivel up. He glances at her face, sees the furrow of her brow and the quirk of her mouth. He drops his gaze momentarily. 

_Definitely don’t stare at her chest, idiot._

He keeps his eyes averted, staring at the foyer just past Amy’s left shoulder. Shaking, Roger says, “Amy, we were close long before any of this nonsense ever happened. Why can’t we be that way now? Can’t we just skip over this whole thing and pretend it never happened?”

Amy exhales a long sigh, and it conjures up a memory in Roger’s brain: the two of them lying in bed, Amy cuddled close to him, her breath hot against his bare chest, her peach-scented shampoo filling his nose. Her next words are a pinprick to the bubble of that memory. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

Roger’s mouth is suddenly dry. Something deep within him begins to fray. “I didn’t kill that girl. I’ve never hurt another human being in my life. God, please believe me.”

“That was just the final domino. There were so many times I tried to convince myself that what we had was enough, but it wasn’t. Not for me. You want the house, the kids, the picket fence, the whole bourgeois life. And it wouldn’t be fair to change you into someone you’re not just so you’d fit in with my world.”

“But you tried, and I went along with it,” Roger says, and he hates how his voice breaks there. “Because I love you.”

“Too much, I think.”

Roger opens his mouth and closes it like he’s a dying fish.

“Especially now,” Amy continues, “you’re going to grab on so tight to everything that it’s suffocating. You’ll want to tie me down by getting married and having babies. And that won’t be fair to either of us.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me that?” Roger says, clutching the life raft of his anger. Sadness paralyzes, but anger empowers. “You just left when I needed you the most.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I was afraid.”

“Of me. You think I did it.”

This is the second time in this conversation Amy has side-stepped that topic, which makes Roger consider carving out his heart with a grapefruit spoon. 

“I was worried how being with you might reflect on my career,” she says. 

Fucking Christ, she’s not supposed to be that shallow. That’s supposed to be a dark, exaggerated suspicion in his head spoken by the Entity, not a real reason for abandoning him. How is he supposed to ignore that stupid voice when it’s actually been proven right?

“But,” Amy continues, “when I saw there was a chance you were innocent, well, too much time had passed. It felt like it would be easier to meet someone new than go through the embarrassing process of reclaiming an old friend.”

“So there’s someone else?” The hits keep on coming, apparently.

“That’s—that’s not a factor here,” Amy says, but her momentary hiccup tells Roger all he needs to know. 

He never should have thought he could be with her.

The familiar creak of the staircase breaks through the fog in Roger’s ears. Then a male voice chirps, “Ames, everything okay?”

_Ames?_

Roger’s face scrunches up in disgust, and it hits him that there’s a man in Amy’s house. A man who’s wearing a T-shirt and polka-dot boxer shorts. A _gigantic_ man. He has at least a good three or four inches on Roger’s six-foot height, though they share a similar average build. He’s bent at the waist, leaning over the staircase railing to better observe what’s going on at the front door.

Chagrin crosses Amy’s face, and a flush spreads over her exposed collarbones. She clutches at the throat of her blouse with a hand, as if only just realizing that it’s open. “Roger, you know Andy.”

Andy Kissel. As in newly-elected Mayor Andrew Kissel. Of course, Roger doesn’t actually _know_ him, but he’s seen Kissel’s all-American mug on various billboards for the past few months. 

“An aide, huh?” Roger says to her. He’s going for a sneering tone, but he probably sounds more vulnerable than anything else. “Now I get it.”

“Andy,” Amy says, apparently choosing to ignore Roger’s question, “this is Roger. Roger was just leaving.”

“Ex-boyfriend Roger?” Kissel asks, taking the stairs two at a time. He joins them in the foyer. He stands behind Amy and places a hand on the small of her back. Roger seethes inwardly. “The same guy who’s been in all the papers?”

Roger shoots Amy an accusing glare. “You told him about me?” If Roger ignores Kissel, maybe he’ll go away and stop trying to make conversation in his underwear. Oh Christ, is this the impression Roger gives when he answers the door in his skivvies? 

Amy shrugs self-consciously, and Roger takes a small bit of satisfaction in rupturing her cool, put-together demeanor. “I felt like he should hear it from me.”

“I gotta ask,” Kissel says, looking at Roger as though he’s a freak show exhibit. “Did you do it?”

Roger scowls. “I don’t hold conversations with people who aren’t wearing pants.”

“Oh, well, that’s probably why Amy dumped you, then,” Kissel says with a chuckle. “Communication’s important.”

The joke is stupid, but it’s humiliating enough for Roger to feel roasted. His skin burns, and his palms sweat. For the life of him, he cannot think of any words that might salvage his relationship with Amy. He came here to mend fences, and instead he’s walking away with wounded pride and nothing to show for it.

Amy puts a hand on Kissel’s arm, as though steadying herself. “Goodbye, Roger.” 

Kissel says something, but Roger doesn’t hear it. He has gone temporarily deaf, like a soldier in a war movie after a nearby cannon blast. This moment will stay with him forever. He will be on his deathbed, and this entire conversation will play in his head. It’s always the bad moments that stick with you.

Amy gives him no time to argue, no time to throw out more words that might pierce her defenses. Roger can only stammer out a pitiful croak before the door shuts and Amy is lost to him forever. There are so many emotions swirling inside of Roger that he doesn’t know how to feel. Numbness steps in and sticks to him like snowflakes. 

For a moment he just stands there on her doorstep, gutted like a fish. He wants to cry and sleep for a hundred years and bludgeon Amy to death and kill himself all at once. 

He drives home on auto-pilot and decides on scotch for breakfast.

* * *

“I did something stupid,” Roger tells Meg that evening. He’s sitting at the diminutive kitchen table, the phone cord stretched across the dining room.

“Oh no!”

“You never said I had to be smart.”

“I hoped it was implied.” Meg sighs, but it’s not like Amy’s sighs of exasperation, lacking the ‘what the hell have you done now’ aggravation. “But, stupid or not, you did something. You’re on your way back.”

“More like ten steps back.” Roger drags a hand through his hair, mindlessly pouring himself a small glass of Jack Daniel’s. “I visited Amy. You know she’s banging Mayor Kissel? Imagine my surprise when I go over there and accidentally interrupt their little afternoon delight.” Roger shudders at the memory.

Meg’s voice is full of empathy. “That’s awful. Are you okay?”

Roger studies the half-empty bottle of whiskey, lightly tipping it from side to side and watching the amber liquid slosh around. “Aside from wishing I was dead, yeah, I’m awesome.”

“No! If you die, she wins. Don’t let her get the last laugh.”

That’s an interesting sentiment, certainly not one he’s heard from Stephanie or his parents. Roger hasn’t really considered the concept of surviving as an act of spite.

“She said I loved her too much,” Roger says after a moment.

“Which means you were ready for a commitment, and she wasn’t. She probably wanted to date other guys and play the field a little,” Meg explains. “You lucked out. If you married her, you would’ve both been miserable and resentful.”

Roger says, “If you know so much about relationships, why aren’t you in one?”

“Who says I’m not?”

“You don’t seem to have anything better to do than help a sad sack like me.”

“Touché,” Meg says, a curl of a smile in her voice. “But my expertise comes from watching my parents’ failed marriage.”

Roger takes a sip from his glass. The drink is bitter on his tongue. “I guess that soured you on the whole thing, huh?”

“Maybe a little bit. But I still believe in true love. It just takes a lot of work.”

“So you’re lazy?” Roger teases.

“I’m sure that’s part of it,” Meg says, amused. “But I haven’t found anyone willing to put in the work.”

“That’s hard to believe.” Roger tips back in his chair a bit, almost a little too far. His heart does a terrified panic dance, and he promptly puts all four chair legs back on the dining room hardwood. “Have you heard from Stephanie lately?”

“She’s on her honeymoon. I’d be worried if she called either of us this soon.”

Roger makes a sound of disgust. “Can you imagine being married to Ken? He looks and acts like he belongs in a commercial for Grey Poupon. On a yacht.”

Meg’s sweet, musical laughter surprises Roger. “You don’t like him? Stephanie told me you two were friends in high school.”

“We weren’t really friends. We just went to the same school and knew each other existed. She wasn’t even friends with him back then. He was a total square.”

“A _square_?” Meg snickers.

“Nobody says that anymore, do they?” 

“You could bring it back.”

Roger swallows the rest of his drink. “When Stephanie was sixteen, she asked Santa for a trophy husband. Ken is a spraypainter at a truck factory.”

“He’s financially stable. That counts for a lot.”

“I can almost guarantee Stephanie makes more money than he does.” Stephanie co-owns a bakery along Madison Park Beach in the same strip of shops where the wedding reception took place.

“Maybe,” Meg says, like she’s thinking about it. “But Ken probably makes enough that it helps her feel more secure. So in case something happened to the bakery, she wouldn’t be totally screwed.”

“She’ll never be totally screwed with Ken. He probably thinks a clitoris is a Dungeons & Dragons monster.”

Meg breaks up with laughter.

“Thank you for laughing at that. Stephanie didn’t think it was funny. Probably because I had the bad sense to say it after they announced their engagement.”

“Your sense of humor is an acquired taste.”

“Like calf liver.”

Meg’s genuine amusement and enjoyment of his company is unlike anything Roger has experienced before. He wants to talk more with her, to unearth her secrets, but the alcohol is taking hold of him. He feels sluggish and sleepy, and who knows what he might say when he’s drunk.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” Roger asks before he loses his nerve. “I mean, not tonight, but maybe Wednesday?”

“I’d love to.”

Roger feels a warmth in his veins that has nothing to do with the booze.

* * *

The next day, Roger’s digging through his refrigerator when he realizes he needs to buy food for tomorrow night’s dinner with Meg. While he’d like to cook something that caters to Meg’s taste for beach cuisine, he wouldn’t know where to begin. Mom has a hefty collection of recipes, but if he asks to see any of them, she’ll grill him with well-meaning but embarrassing questions and eventually dig up the real reason why he’s so suddenly interested in cooking again. Then Mom will want to meet Meg, and while Mom has the best of intentions, her eagerness to see Roger happy will inevitably suffocate him and drive Meg off. 

So that leaves Roger to make the only recipe he truly knows by heart: spaghetti carbonara. Meg will be expecting this and possibly view him as predictable, but how does the old saying go: if you can’t handle me at my spaghetti carbonara, you don’t deserve me at my Wagyu beef strip steak.

The Safeway is just a short drive from Roger’s apartment in the University District. He would have preferred to have a drink beforehand to calm his nerves, but he might not have made it to the store in one piece that way. He’s wearing bland, nondescript clothes to help himself blend into the sea of shoppers. His hair has been styled differently, combed back and curly rather than parted on one side. The scruff on his jaw helps to distinguish him from the pictures of himself clean-shaven which are plastered in the papers. Still, he is nervous, as though waiting for a bomb to explode.

Elton John sings about how he’s still standing while Roger stares at the eggs. Small, medium, large, brown, white. There are too many choices, and Roger feels momentarily overwhelmed. He’s vaguely aware of someone rolling their shopping cart toward him. A tightness draws in his muscles, jitters spreading from the tips of his fingers to his toes.

“Roger?”

Panic overwhelms him until he recognizes the voice. The woman standing beside him is Carol Gaines, a plumpish, mid-forties mother of two. Roger and Carol met over five years ago when they worked together as emergency dispatchers. They became fast friends, and they kept in contact even after moving on to greener pastures. Carol had been one of the few friends who did not abandon him after the incident.

“Hey, Carol.”

“It’s been a while,” Carol says. “How are you doing? Did you get my letter?”

Roger did. It was last month, and he had forgotten to respond. To be fair, her letter had arrived in the wake of his alleged suicide attempt, and he hadn’t had much energy for anything other than lying in bed and drinking.

“Yeah. Sorry. I’ve been”— _busy feeling sorry for myself?_ —”preoccupied. What’s going on in your world?”

“I’m helping Linda move out of her dorm,” Carol says. Linda is her oldest daughter, a psychology student at the University of Washington. “She just graduated.”

_Like you should have_ , the Entity sneers at him. _Would have, if you’d kept your mouth shut about Mandy Nelson._

“That’s great. Tell her congratulations from me.” Roger never met Carol’s children during the time they spent as co-workers, but he heard plenty about them from her during lunch breaks on the job. 

Carol nods and says that she will. “What about you?” She peers into his grocery cart. “Planning on a special dinner?”

“You could say that.” Roger wants to tell her about his progress, that he’s met someone sweet and pleasant who isn’t scared off by his airport’s worth of baggage. But he’s just superstitious enough to fear jinxing this brief flicker of good fortune by speaking about it out loud.

They catch up while Roger finishes his shopping. As he’s waiting in the checkout line, his gaze scans the newspapers on display. One particular front page headline stops him:

Police Stumped In Disappearance of College Student

Roger is able to read the first few paragraphs of the story without taking the paper out of its slot in the rack. The missing girl’s name is Susan Thompson. A picture of her in the article sidebar shows she has long brown hair and a hopeful smile; it’s the same picture he saw on the news report at the wedding. The girl is beautiful and young and probably much too trusting, just like Mandy was. Curiously enough, she is a student at the University of Washington. 

According to the article, Susan disappeared from her dorm three nights ago. Her wallet containing cash and her ID were left behind on her bedroom dresser. The door was unlocked. Police suspect foul play and are treating her disappearance as an abduction. So far, they have no leads.

_You ruined my life trying to protect society from me,_ Roger thinks, _but look at all the truly dangerous people in the world. What are you doing about them?_


	4. Chapter 4

“How’s the honeymoon going?” Roger asks the next evening, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder while he cooks bacon on the stovetop. “And why the hell did you go to fucking Portland? Snore.”

“Shut up,” Stephanie says with a laugh. “Ken lived there as a kid. He wanted to show me his hometown.”

Ol’ Ken could’ve chosen a more exciting venue for his honeymoon to a woman miles out of his league, but whatever. Roger doesn’t much care. Stephanie’s the one who married the most milquetoast motherfucker Roger’s ever seen.

“Are we having fun yet?” Roger asks.

He can picture Stephanie’s acerbic expression as she says, “As a matter of fact, we are. The hotel is so gorgeous, you wouldn’t believe it. And there’s a restaurant on the roof, so you can watch the sun set over the mountains while you eat. Yesterday we went to a chocolate shop that has a million different kinds of truffles. Some of them look like animals or fruits or all kinds of cute things. We bought a whole box.”

“Uh-huh,” Roger says, coaxing her on as he nudges the bacon with a wooden spoon. The smell of bacon grease wafts up into his nose, and his stomach growls.

“Y’know, Ken is really supportive about me opening a store here. We passed by a vacant storefront the other day, and he brought it up, like, ‘hey, you could put another Confetti Cakes here.’ I thought he was joking, but he was totally serious.” Stephanie has raised the topic of expanding her business before, but lately she’s been rather quiet about it. Given the family circumstances, her silence is no surprise. It’s nice to hear her talking about it again.

“If that’s what you want, I won’t stop you,” Roger says. Of course he would miss his sister immensely, as though a part of him has been torn out. But he wouldn’t tread over her dreams by keeping her tethered to him through guilt or manipulation.

“I guess I could stay in Portland a while and help the new shop get off the ground, then come back home and manage the one at Madison Park.”

“Or you could move to Portland if that’s what you both want.”

“But you’ll be alone,” Stephanie says, like she knows exactly what that means for Roger.

There’s no time for Roger to think about that, because the oven timer blares in droning succession.

“What’s that noise?” Stephanie asks. “Are you burning your apartment down?”

“I’m cooking.” Roger opens the oven door and extracts a pan of toasty garlic bread. He sets it on the countertop to cool.

“Holy shit, really? What’s the occasion?”

Roger’s a little insulted that she assumes there must be an _occasion_ , but it’s not like she’s wrong. “I’m having company.”

Stephanie gasps a sound of hope and surprise. Her genuine excitement over his improvement fills Roger with momentary pride. “Did you and Meg hit it off at the wedding?”

“She doesn’t seem bothered by my status as a social pariah, so, yeah.” Roger does his best to sound nonchalant, but inside he’s both thrilled and nervous as though this is his first date all over again. After being plastered in the news as an alleged murderer, he never seriously expected a woman to want to be near him ever again. And Amy’s rejection didn’t give him much cause for optimism either. “We’re having dinner tonight.”

“See? I knew you could do it!”

“Hold your applause. I’m somewhat of a tragic figure, and Meg strikes me as the kind of girl who feels guilty about saying no to people.”

“I assure you Meg is perfectly capable of rejecting men, even pathetic ones. If I had a nickel for every time she turned down some sweaty loser lingering outside our aerobics center…”

The idea of competing with other men for Meg’s affection frightens Roger. “Do you think she said yes for the free food? A lot of our conversations have been food-related.”

Stephanie sighs like Roger is just the worst. “Will you stop? She said yes because she likes you, idiot.”

Roger pauses, staring at the sizzling bacon in the pan. Why is he going to such lengths to impress a girl who most likely only cares about the Roger she thinks she knows? The real Roger—the one who struggles to get out of bed each morning, who drinks at least half a bottle of whiskey or wine per day, who needs to pep-talk himself into going to the grocery store, who suffers debilitating anxiety attacks—is grungy and ugly. Nobody’s gonna love that guy.

_Amy was right to dump you._

“If she gets to know me, she won’t like me,” Roger says.

Stephanie sounds wounded when she replies: “I’ve seen you at your worst, and I still love you. There are still good people out there. Meg is one of them.”

Roger nods, not really believing her, but not wanting to hear more platitudes either. “Well, we’ll see.”

“We certainly will. Ken and I will be back by tomorrow night. I’ll stop in as soon as I can and get all the details,” Stephanie says.

Thirty minutes later, Roger has set the tiny dining table with plates of spaghetti, a loaf of garlic bread, and empty wine glasses. He found a half-empty bottle of Chablis in the kitchen and stuck it in the freezer to chill. 

Meg shows up just as Roger’s debating whether to change clothes for the second time tonight. He opens the door and gasps at the sight of her. Meg’s wearing a purple blouse with a floral-patterned skirt. A thick black belt cinches her waist, and playful pink earrings dangle from her ears.

“Hi,” Roger sputters out. Mr. Smooth.

Meg grins. “Hi yourself. You feeling okay?”

“I’m doing better.” It’s impossible to frown when Meg’s smiling at him like this, and Roger feels his mouth mirror her expression. “Come on in.”

He lets her inside, and Meg is drawn to the immaculately set table. “Oh, this is really sweet of you. And you made your famous spaghetti!” She turns to him. “You’ve been busy!” She must have assumed he’d order a pizza rather than undergo the laborious process of preparing a meal himself.

“I hope it’s good,” Roger says. “I haven’t made it in a while. Maybe I’ve lost my touch.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Meg takes her seat, and Roger retrieves the wine from the freezer. He pours their glasses, trying to keep his hands from shaking. Meg doesn’t seem to notice. She takes a bite of spaghetti and makes a groaning sound. “Ah, it’s amazing!”

“You really think so?”

“Yes, oh my God. It’s been ages since I’ve had a decent home-cooked meal. My dad’s idea of cooking is microwaving a TV dinner.”

“I don’t mean to pry, but what happened to your mother?”

“After she and my dad split up, she married some stick-in-the-mud stockbroker and moved to Tacoma.” Meg twirls noodles around the tines of the fork. “I know it might seem like I don’t love her since I didn’t move in with her, but Mom’s always been more”—she searches for the word—”capable than my dad. She seemed like she’d be okay, but my dad needs someone around. Not all the time, just someone to come home to.”

“Did you ever think about getting him a dog?”

Meg shakes her head, shovels in another bite. “He’s allergic to pets.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. I had a dog when I was growing up. His name was Bonzo, because I loved Led Zeppelin when I was thirteen. He was a Christmas present from my dad. Bonzo died a couple of years ago, and it was the worst thing that ever happened to me until recently.”

Roger often regrets telling sad things to Meg; she looks pained, as though she must now share in his grief. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Her sympathetic gaze stays on him before she takes another bite. “Are you going to eat?” She gestures to his plate with her fork. 

Roger hasn’t attempted to eat yet. He’s been too busy staring at Meg and trying to figure out what her real motivation is for being here. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

They eat in silence for a few moments. Roger wracks his brain by thinking of something to talk about. Jesus Christ, he used to be good at this. How else had he convinced Amy to date him once upon a time? He had charm and likeability and charisma, then all of it was stolen away, a tragic genie sucked back into the bottle. 

“Tell me about Florida,” Roger says suddenly. People love to talk about their favorite things, right? Maybe this will get Meg to do most of the talking, and he won’t have to overstress these rusted-over conversation muscles.

“It actually rains a lot more there than here. I know that’s kind of shocking, since rain is one of Seattle’s biggest exports. But we’ve got you beat.” So she considers herself a Floridian despite being born and raised in Washington. Interesting. “Most of the time they’re just short rainshowers. And the weather is a lot sunnier. It’s hot and humid, sure, but at least you can go to the beach and get a tan.”

“What did you study in college? I don’t think you ever told me.”

“Psychology.”

Roger smiles. “That was my minor.” And it explains how Meg is so wise despite her years. It occurs to Roger he doesn’t actually know how old Meg is. Twenty-two has been his best guess, because she’s a college graduate. But he doesn’t want to be rude by flat-out asking. “What did you want to do? Before everything changed.”

Meg takes a sip of wine. “I wanted to do something with my degree. Maybe be a psychiatrist or a school counselor. But I don’t think most people would take me seriously.”

“Why not?”

“I look too young to know anything of value.”

Roger scoffs and shakes his head. “That’s crap. Everyone has something worthwhile to tell.”

Meg arches an eyebrow. “Even you?”

“I’m a cautionary tale.”

By the time they’re finished eating, they’ve moved to the couch. Roger is on his second glass of Chablis now. Meg has slipped off her shoes, one leg tucked beneath her on the couch.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” Roger asks her. Maybe he’s a little tipsy. “I mean, the thing that plays in your head when it’s late at night and you’re trying to sleep. The thing you’ll never forgive yourself for.”

Meg thinks about it for a moment, staring into her glass of wine as though it holds the answer. “I have two, actually.”

“Fire away.”

“I lost my virginity to this awful guy in high school because I wanted him to like me. Well, I guess he did like me, but not for the right reasons.” A sardonic smile crosses her mouth, but it fades as quickly as it appeared. “But of course he was just a shallow jerk.”

“You can let yourself off the hook for that one,” Roger says, trying to reassure her. “Everybody makes mistakes when they’re a teenager. And there’s so much pressure at that age about having sex, or not having it.”

“But it’s different for girls. For guys, losing their virginity is like a rite of passage. No guy wants to be the virgin in his group of friends. But girls are expected to hold onto it until marriage.”

“Any guy who puts stock in that is probably a dickhead. Save yourself a lot of headaches and don’t bother dating us until we’re past twenty-five. Something about girls maturing faster.”

Meg snickers. “And how old are you?”

“My ten-year high school reunion is coming up next year, so that ought to give you a rough idea. But that’s beside the point. What’s your second terrible past mistake?”

Meg holds her glass delicately, with both hands, like she’s cupping a chalice. “When I was in college, I strung along this guy I was seeing. We started going out, and I thought he was nice enough, but I never really loved him the way you’re supposed to. I just hoped the being-in-love part would come along eventually. The worst part is I broke up with him when he proposed. Seeing that ring just kind of… shocked me into realizing how far I’d let everything go. And I knew that was my last chance to make it right. Or at least keep it from being even more wrong.” She blinks her long lashes, and a few tears escape.

“That’s not so bad either. Not a lot of people are ready to settle down and commit in their early twenties. What was it you told me? ‘If you got married, you would have both been miserable and resentful.’”

A smile twitches at the corners of Meg’s mouth. Roger wants to touch her, to put his hands on her shoulders or bring her close to comfort her, but he doesn’t know how the gesture will be received, so he does nothing. 

“It’s incredibly sad not to love someone who loves you, but I pretended I did. I can’t forgive myself for that.”

Roger thinks of what Meg might say to him if their roles were reversed. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. And I know I’m the last person to give advice like that. But I’m sure Stephanie told you the same thing.”

Meg shifts in her seat, as if suddenly uncomfortable. “I never told her.”

“Really?”

“It was just something I didn’t want to talk about. So I buried it. Which I know is totally unhealthy.”

Roger ought to say something to alleviate some of Meg’s guilt, or at least make her feel like she’s not the worst human being on earth. “You want to know mine? I tried to kill myself.” It’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud, the first time he’s admitted to it. The words seem to suck all the air out of the room. For a moment, Meg looks at him as though she truly understands the mess Roger has made of himself.

“It was a few weeks ago,” Roger continues. “I’ve pretty much been hiding since the whole awful mess started. But I decided to actually do something. I told myself I was being paranoid, that people had probably forgotten about me and moved on. I was wrong. I felt claustrophobic. Everyone was staring at me. I went out for a burger and they spit in my food. When I got home, I just fell apart. I couldn’t stop thinking about how fucking awful my life was. How I ended up becoming nothing. And it tore me apart, because I’m just an average guy. I’m not a celebrity or a politician or anyone who could really have a fall from grace. I didn’t see a way out. So I swallowed a bunch of aspirin with half a bottle of whiskey. Stephanie found me and had the paramedics pump my stomach. We were supposed to go out that night. I guess she showed up right as the pills started to kick in.”

Tears stream down Meg’s cheeks. “God, I’m so sorry.” She wipes her eyes with her fingertips so her makeup doesn’t smudge. 

It occurs to him that, in his attempt to alleviate her burden, he’s just given her something even more depressing to think about. _Nice going, dipshit._

“Have you ever thought about moving?” Meg asks. “Just pack up and go to, like, Maine or something. Somewhere halfway across the country where no one’s ever heard of Roger Cowell. You could be a dairy farmer or catch lobster or whatever the heck they do in Maine.”

“Maine?” Roger says with curiosity.

“Stephen King lives there,” Meg says, shrugging like that’s the only reason to ever visit the place. “And I’ve heard it’s pretty.”

“I’ve thought about moving. But if I did, I’d be alone. At least here I have Stephanie and my parents and even Carol.”

“You have a girlfriend you haven’t mentioned?”

Roger laughs. “Carol is in her mid-forties with two kids. A little too old and married for me. But we used to work together. She’s still on speaking terms with me, so I still count her on my tiny list of friends. But I wouldn’t have any of those people if I moved away.” 

And Meg wouldn’t be there. She’s becoming somewhat of an addiction for him, a daily dose of optimism and steadfast belief in his innate goodness. Mom, Dad, and Stephanie have familial obligation tying them to Roger, but what’s Meg’s motivation?

“You’d be able to make new friends. You’d get to reinvent yourself. Be who you want to be. That’s what I did in Florida. I didn’t have to be the bookish weird girl who always wore baggy sweaters to hide her body. I could be this cool new person who dresses like Madonna and goes to parties and doesn’t worry about what I do getting back to my parents.”

Roger studies her, trying to find the awkward, shy teenager hidden within her confident persona.

“How many years did you have left at UW?” Meg asks.

“I was a year or so shy of getting my law degree.”

“So send out a bunch of applications and see what happens. The worst they can say is no, and then you’re just back where you started.”

“Who the hell is going to write me a recommendation letter?” 

“If your GPA is high enough they’ll probably overlook that part. And being involved in extra-curricular stuff helps too.” Meg watches Roger’s face; it must not be very encouraging. “I’ll help you, if you want. In high school, I helped all my friends with their college applications. Most of them got into their first-choice schools.”

“It’s too late to apply, isn’t it?”

“Maybe, maybe not. You can always try for winter or spring, if the fall deadline is past.”

It’s the last thing in the world Roger wants to do, but he’ll admit Meg pushing him to venture out of his comfort zone has made him feel slightly better, even if only for the sense of accomplishment he gets from completing one of her tasks.

So he says yes.

* * *

The next morning, Roger is awakened by persistent meowing on the other side of the living room window. He’d fallen asleep on the couch after Meg left, and now a grey cat paws at the glass. Roger picks himself up off the couch and moves closer to get a better look at the animal. The cat isn’t wearing a collar, so he’s probably not accustomed to being outside. He doesn’t look scraggly or underfed like a stray cat would, so odds are someone is missing their pet.

The cat’s meows rise in intensity as Roger moves closer. Roger unlocks and opens the front door. The cat scurries inside, circling Roger’s legs and chirping for food. 

“I guess you’re hungry,” Roger says. He digs through the fridge for something appropriate to feed the animal. Cat follows with great interest, its nose twitching at the variety of smells wafting from the fridge. The crisper drawer squeaks loudly as Roger pulls it out, and Cat darts underneath the table.

“Sorry,” Roger says. He finds a package of sliced ham and tears up a piece. Cat looks intrigued but still cautious. Roger sets the plate of ham on the kitchen floor, taps the dish with his fingernail. “Here you go, buddy.”

Roger steps away from the plate, and Cat creeps out from underneath the table. After a few seconds of curious study, Cat begins to eat.

“What’s your name?” Roger asks, as though expecting the cat to answer. “You don’t look like a stray, so you must have a name.”

The cat ignores him, chowing down ham. 

“Where do you live?” It’s a stupid question, and Roger realizes this as soon as it leaves his mouth. If the cat knew where its home was, it wouldn’t be hanging around Roger’s place.

_Also, cats can’t talk. Idiot._

While the cat eats, Roger cobbles together a ‘found cat’ sign with a marker and notebook paper. He slips out the door and hangs the sign in the complex’s bulletin board area, amidst thumb-tacked business cards and advertisements for moving services, roommates wanted, and furniture for sale.

When he returns to the apartment, the cat has burrowed itself into the blankets of Roger’s bed. The ham is gone. He fills a small bowl with water and sets it near the fridge. “I guess you’re mine for a while,” he says.


	5. Chapter 5

Meg calls around noon. “Hey, do you think you’re up for a little trip later?”

“Only the good kind,” Roger says.

“I guess I should have worded that better. I thought we could go to the library and look at the college catalogs.”

Roger has no idea how he’ll feel by the time Meg gets off work, but he agrees anyway. “By the way, I have a cat now.”

“You do?” Meg practically squeals. “What’s its name? Is it a boy or a girl?”

“Upon closer inspection, it’s a girl. I haven’t named her yet. She might belong to someone, and I don’t want to get attached. I put up a sign by the mailboxes. If no one calls after a week or so I guess I’ll keep her.”

“A pet would be good for you,” Meg says. 

Roger nods before he remembers Meg can’t see the gesture over the phone. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to make homemade cat litter, would you? It’d save me a trip to the store.”

Meg laughs. “Actually, I do! One of my dormmates used to make it for her cat because the dust in the storebought stuff messed with her allergies. I don’t know the exact recipe, but if your cat’s pooping in it, it probably doesn’t need to be perfect. Shred up some newspaper, add water and dish soap. Let it soak for a while, then add in some baking soda. Then just crumble it up and let it dry.”

Roger scribbles notes onto a nearby legal pad.

“What are you feeding her?”

“Sandwich meats.” Roger can feel the judgment through the phone. “I don’t want to stock up on cat food just to have the owners show up the next day,” he explains. “If nobody calls, I’ll buy her real food.” _I don’t want to go out in public again,_ he means to say. _Not unless it’s necessary._

“Or you could adopt a cat. If someone claims her, I mean.”

“I don’t think they let you adopt pets if you’re living off unemployment checks.” Roger doesn’t know for sure. He’s never adopted a pet from a shelter or a store; Bonzo was given to him after a neighbor’s dog had puppies, and the transaction was handled by his parents.

“Oh.” Meg sounds momentarily disheartened. “What job did you have while you were in school?”

“I worked at the campus library.”

“Well, let’s focus on school first. If it’s too late to send in an application, we can look into getting you a job. Maybe I could get you something at the station.”

Roger chuckles. “Now there’s a thought.” As if he would ever work in a news station, surrounded by the same brand of journalists and reporters who made his life a living hell.

Meg arrives four hours later wearing a hot pink t-shirt and black shorts. “Where’s the kitty?”

“She seems to like the bed,” Roger says. The smell of depression sweat must be irresistible to cats.

Meg finds the bedroom and pokes at the lump underneath the blankets. “Are you in there?” A soft meow sounds from the bed. Meg peels back the covers and reveals the grey cat, who turns her golden eyes to Meg. “Aww, you’re so pretty!” The cat sniffs Meg’s hand tentatively, then licks it with a pink tongue. “You look like a little dustbunny! That’s a cute name, don’t you think? Dustbunny. D.B.”

“D.B. Cooper,” Roger suggests.

Meg snorts a laugh.

“Too obscure?”

“Just a bit.” Meg rubs the cat’s head, scratches behind its ears. “But I had a friend in high school who named his dog River Rat. His dad was a trucker, so I guess it made sense.”

They head to the Seattle Public Library in Meg’s light brown Volkswagen Beetle. “Time After Time” plays through the car stereo. The last time Roger rode in someone else’s vehicle, he was being rushed to the hospital after his overdose. In fact, most of the occasions in recent memory he’s ridden in a car not his own have been unpleasant: being shuttled to the police station, the awkward car ride home with his parents after his release from jail. The memories make Roger feel sick.

The library is a regal white building with vibrant cherry blossom trees on either side. Inside the entry vestibule are bulletins printed on colorful paper with large fonts, and pamphlets announcing community events and programs. Meg leads him inside, far in the back, where the university reference materials are located. The library is moderately crowded for a weekday afternoon. A few heads turn at the sight of Meg; whether they recognize her from TV or are simply ogling her Roger doesn’t know.

Meg and Roger claim an empty table and spread catalogs for various colleges across it. Roger has picked out a few promising schools: University of Utah, University of Minnesota, University of Maine at Augusta, and Meg’s alma mater, Florida State University. He copies down information with a stubby pencil, writing in messy, almost unreadable cursive. Meg takes notes in impeccably perfect print, her letters round and lively. 

As he writes, Roger feels a sense of freedom, like this truly marks the beginning of a new life for him. He will be accepted to one of these schools, and he will move far, far away from here to a place that knows nothing about him. He will reinvent himself, make friends, meet a kind woman and raise a family. He will forget about Amy, about Meg too, as much as that thought hurts. He will forget all the injustice he’s suffered until it feels like a hazy memory from a past life. He is still so young, too young to resign himself to unhappiness. 

On occasion, Roger glances up from his legal pad and catches the eye of some nervous person staring at him, who then quickly looks away. Do they recognize him? Or does his facial hair make him look like a recently-freed convict? He gives his chin a casual rub. He’d forgotten to shave today, and he might be suffering for it. His once-playful scruff is evolving into the unkempt beginnings of a beard, and Roger has never been the kind of man who can pull off a beard. 

“What’s wrong?” Meg whispers.

“People are staring at me.”

“No, they’re staring at _me_. They’ve never seen a person from TV in real life before.” Meg flashes him a flirty smile, and it’s hard to disagree with her. When given the choice to stare at a beautiful girl or a creepy guy, most people would pick the former. 

Roger seems to be taking longer than expected, because Meg wanders off into the depths of the library. Her absence makes him nervous, and without her he feels vulnerable, unprotected by her warmth and charm. His concentration lapses, and he’s staring at the text in front of him until the words no longer make sense. 

Meg returns to the table, engrossed in a book, using her peripheral vision to find her seat. Roger catches a glimpse of the cover. “What’s ‘cryptozoology’?” he asks.

Meg’s face flushes, like she expects to be laughed at. “The study of creatures from folklore. Like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster.”

“How do you study something that doesn’t exist?”

“I just think the legends are neat. When I was a kid, my parents lived in a house by the woods, and my dad used to tease me about Bigfoot. One night he showed me this movie, _The Legend of Boggy Creek_. He thought I would laugh at it, like one of those old 1950s monster movies, but it was terrifying. I laid awake at night scared to death that Bigfoot was going to burst through my bedroom window and grab me.”

Roger stifles a snicker. “You were, what, eight?”

“I was thirteen,” Meg mumbles, blushing red. “Sure, it scared me, but it got me curious. So I started reading about Bigfoot and other mythical monsters. It’s hard to be afraid of something when it’s no longer a bogeyman creeping around in the dark.”

“I imagine knowing that there’s never been physical proof of these creatures helps a lot,” Roger says. He’s not trying to make fun of her, but he wonders if that’s how it sounds.

“I believe they used to exist, at least. All the folklore and legends can’t be too off base.” Meg keeps looking down at the open book. Roger decides to shut up and let her read. He has work to finish, too.

When they’ve copied down all the information they need, Meg takes them to Dairy Queen for celebratory ice cream. They sit on the hood of the Bug and watch the early evening traffic. Roger pretends like he’s not watching Meg’s mouth and tongue as she licks the hot fudge from her ice cream cone.

“I guess you don’t buy into the theory that Lake Sunderstone State Park is haunted, huh?” Meg asks.

“You read that in one of your ghost books?”

Meg snags the red plastic spoon sticking out of his sundae and takes a small bite. It doesn’t seem to bother her that his mouth has touched that spoon. “Don’t be a spoilsport.”

“But it’s the only sport I’m good at,” Roger says. He takes a few spoonfuls of ice cream. It’s smooth and sweet. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why is Sunderstone haunted?”

“Well, no one knows _why_. There are theories, mostly about how the spirits of pioneers who died there are haunting the place. It’s local legend; I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of it. I just think it’s silly.”

“So it’s just a coincidence, then, that your life went to crap after you picked up a hitchhiker at Lake Sunderstone? _And_ that her body ended up there?”

“Probably. Or maybe the killer heard about the legends. What, you think a ghost killed her and brought her body back to the park?” Mandy Nelson’s body was found in the depths of the woods surrounding Lake Sunderstone State Park. She had been haphazardly buried, as though the killer didn’t much care whether her body was discovered but at least wanted to attempt concealment. While the police had been busy focusing on Roger for the disappearance, a hiker discovered the body when his dog ran off the trail and dug at the soil until a hand sprouted from the earth.

“I didn’t know it was possible for someone to be so grumpy while eating ice cream,” Meg observes.

“I’m not grumpy.”

“Your face begs to differ.”

Is he frowning or scowling? He can’t tell. His facial muscles have accommodated to whatever grim mask he wears daily. “That’s just how my face looks.”

“Why don’t I believe that?”

“Have you ever actually seen me smile?”

“In that picture they always showed of you in the papers and TV. You were with a girl. Was that Amy?”

Rogers remembers how Amy was either cropped out of the photo entirely, or her face was blacked out to protect her privacy. “Isn’t it sad the only time you’ve seen me smile was in a picture taken years ago?” His life is divided into two phases: pre-arrest and post-arrest. Everything pre-arrest is excluded from his current personality assessment.

“Not really. You won’t be this way forever.”

“You sound pretty certain.”

“You live in a city that’s gloomy most of the time with a lot of people who don’t like you. Of course you’re gonna be depressed. Whatever college you get accepted to—heck, even Minnesota—you’ll be a lot happier getting away from this place.”

“I’ve always heard you can’t run away from your problems.”

“So what’s the solution?” Meg asks with a shrug. “Convince every single person in the state to like you? Sometimes running away is the best thing to do. It doesn’t mean you’re a coward or whatever macho bullcrap you’ve heard.”

Roger glances away, unsure how to answer. He scans the parking lot and catches sight of a man he can only describe as a douchebag exiting the Dairy Queen. He’s all gym muscle and bronzer with blonde hair and sunglasses. A Billy Idol wannabe. Roger’s almost certain he’s being stared at—despite Douchebag’s dark sunglasses—and he averts his eyes. In his peripheral vision, though, he sees a figure approaching.

_Speaking of macho bullcrap…_

“You’re the babe from channel 7, right?” Douchebag says as he swaggers up to Meg. He doesn’t wait for her answer. “What are you doing with this psycho?” He jerks a thumb at Roger, as though neither of them would know who he was referring to otherwise.

Meg’s disgusted expression is a thing of wonder. “’This psycho’ is my friend. His name is Roger. And I’m Meg, by the way. Not ‘babe.’ They show my name every time I’m on TV.”

“You know he killed a girl?” Douchebag says, ignoring pretty much everything Meg said.

“No, I _don’t_ know that, since he was never charged with a crime,” Meg says, straightening up a little. Stephanie wasn’t joking when she said Meg could hold her own. “What’s the point of having a justice system if we can just _decide_ who’s guilty based on feelings instead of facts?”

Douchebag looks a little perturbed and baffled by this philosophical line of inquiry. He probably came over here expecting to throw out some cheesy line and win her over. This guy doesn’t look like the type to have deep, mentally stimulating conversations with women—or anyone, really. “He had a good lawyer. He covered it up.”

“If I covered it up, why would I voluntarily contact the police?” Roger interjects.

Douchebag whirls on him. “Nobody’s talking to you, dickweed.”

Roger feels a frog in his throat. He is unable to speak. Ants crawl underneath his skin, tickling his veins. His heartbeat quickens.

Meg seems to intuit Roger’s anxiety. “Well, then if he’s so crazy and bloodthirsty, how do you know he won’t kill _you_?”

“’Cause I know all about guys like him,” Douchebag sneers. He turns his glare to Roger. “They’re weak and powerless little bitches. They know a man would stomp their ass into the ground, so they go after women.”

“So, wait, are you saying it would be better for a man to kill another man?” Meg asks. “Wouldn’t it be better if no one killed anyone?”

“Yeah, well, if you’re not careful he’s gonna kill you next,” Douchebag says with a sneer, like he knows Meg is a hundred times smarter than him and resents her for it. He walks—no, _swaggers_ —away to a black Mazda.

“Go rub your two IQ points together and see if you can start a fire,” Roger grumbles when Douchebag is inside the car.

Meg giggles, hiding her laughter behind her hand.

“Do you always have to put up with idiots like that?” Roger wonders. 

“We all have our own cross to bear,” Meg says, shrugging it off. “Would you have kicked his ass if he didn’t let up?”

“I can’t.”

“C’mon, everybody knows to aim for the crotch.”

“No, I mean I _can’t_. Any violence on my part just makes me look guilty. And if I’m doing it to protect a woman, I look even guiltier because it seems like I’m saying ‘look how chivalrous I am, I could never have killed that girl.’”

Meg makes a face at this leap of logic. “If someone wants to believe you’re guilty, they’re going to, no matter how much of a saint you try to be. So why not just be yourself?”

Roger doesn’t answer. His ice cream is beginning to melt, and he takes a few quick bites.

“Would you have knocked that guy out if you didn’t have to worry about your reputation?”

Roger licks his lips. “Did you see the size of him? I would’ve gotten my head broken. But I wouldn’t have just sat there and let him talk to you like that either.”

“That’s the spirit,” Meg says, stealing another bite of Roger’s sundae.

For the briefest moment, he considers inviting her for dinner again. Maybe this time they could go out someplace nice, like a real date. 

_Just so you can run out with your tail between your legs like you did before?_ the Entity sneers from its dark home in Roger’s head. Now may not be the time to overcome the wicked gremlins turning gears and cranks in his brain, and just… be normal. Maybe normal goes out the window after an event like this. 

The night Roger dropped Mandy Nelson off at her apartment was his last true night of normalcy; he awakened into a nightmare and would never sleep the same again.

* * *

The cat—semi-officially named Dustbunny—wakes Roger up the next morning by licking his face. Roger groans in protest, rolling onto his side. Dustbunny flops beside him and gazes at him with pleading eyes. A tiny purr sounds from the cat’s mouth.

Roger nestles his fingers in Dustbunny’s fur. The cat is soft and solid, and she wriggles under the attention. Roger pets her for a while. The simple act is soothing beyond belief, and Roger is briefly seized by how wonderful pets are. Here is a small animal who puts all its trust in you, its owner, to provide and care for it. And it gives unconditional love in return.

Roger gets up and tends to his cat chores. He feeds Dustbunny a fresh ham slice, fills her bowl with fresh water, and changes out her litter with more of the homemade “brew” he concocted yesterday. He considers going back to bed, but he has colleges to call, applications to send. So Roger pours himself a glass of orange juice and microwaves some bacon. He checks his messages. No one has called regarding the cat. Maybe he’ll get to keep Dustbunny after all.

Around noon, Stephanie shows up at Roger’s door with Ken in tow. Stephanie looks svelte and ready for summer, wearing jean shorts and a blue plaid shirt. Ken, on the other hand, looks like he just stepped off a yacht. He’s wearing khakis and a salmon polo shirt with the little alligator sewn onto the breast. He appears to have lost a few pounds since the last time Roger saw him, though Roger knows that’s unlikely.

Stephanie greets Roger with a hug. Her hair smells impossibly fruity. “How’d your date go?” Stephanie asks as she and Ken step inside.

“You might get a better answer out of Meg,” Roger says, shutting the door once they’re inside.

“She’s still at work, so you’re stuck with me.” Stephanie sits on the couch, startling Dustbunny, who had been sleeping on one end of the sofa. The cat bolts upright, then settles, as if recognizing Stephanie. “Oh! You got a cat?”

“I’m just holding her until her owners show up.”

“Well, hi there, kitty,” Ken says, approaching Dustbunny.

Apparently, Dustbunny is not a fan of Ken. She bolts to all fours, hissing long and loud like TV static, then darts off of the couch and into the bedroom.

Roger smothers a laugh. “I guess she’s wary of strangers.” He doesn’t mention that this is the first time he’s heard the cat hiss, or that Dustbunny didn’t react that way to Meg and Stephanie. Or even Roger himself.

“How long have you had her?” Stephanie asks.

Roger shrugs. “About a day.”

“Hey, Rog’,” Ken says, “I’m starved. You got anything I can eat around here?”

“Yeah, take whatever you want. And don’t call me ‘Rog,’ Kennifer.”

Ken scowls at the nickname and sulks off into the kitchen.

Stephanie catches Roger up on the honeymoon, recalling every scenic stop and tourist trap with remarkable detail. While they talk, Ken eats half a bag of potato chips and a tray of nearly-stale Chips Ahoy. Roger tells Stephanie about his date with Meg, about Meg’s determination to send Roger back to school to finish his law degree. 

“Roger, I am so proud of you!” Stephanie says, clasping Roger’s hands in her own. “Have you told Mom and Dad?”

“I’m not making a big deal out of it,” Roger says. “I don’t want to get their hopes up.”

“But it’s definitely progress,” Ken adds.

“Ken’s right. You’re taking steps in the right direction,” Stephanie tells him.

“It’s cause for celebration,” Ken adds, clapping Roger on the shoulder. “We should go out sometime, have a beer.”

Roger fights his urge to shrug away from Ken’s hand. He probably shouldn’t be a dick to his new brother-in-law. “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

Stephanie rises from the couch. “Can I use your restroom? It’s been a long drive.”

Roger finds it odd she’s asking for permission, especially from him. Stephanie tends to treat Roger’s apartment like her second home, entering as she pleases. “Go ahead.”

Stephanie hurries into the bathroom and shuts the door.

Ken says, “So, you’re going to school out of state?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Any reason why?”

Roger blinks. “My life sucks here. In case you forgot, I’m a murder suspect.”

“But your family is here,” Ken says, looking perplexed by Roger’s life choices.

“They’ll be fine without me. Stephanie has you and her career, and my parents have each other.”

“Meg is here.” Ken says it like he’s making a point. “And Amy.”

Roger huffs. “Amy wants nothing to do with me. Meg, on the other hand…” He exhales a long sigh. “It’s better for her if I go. She’ll probably be bummed for a bit, but she’ll forget I ever existed after a while.”

“Is it serious?”

“It’s not anything. We’re just friends,” Roger says, realizing how pathetic that sounds. It’s not as though he’s some sort of deformed bridge troll with bad hygiene. But while Meg might be interested in Roger on looks alone, his personality leaves a lot to be desired. He is in no way relationship material for someone like her.

Ken laughs. “C’mon. If a dork like me could land a girl like Stephanie, you can get Meg.”

“So you admit you’re a dork?”

“I’m comfortable with who I am, Roger,” Ken tells him, like Mr. Wannabe WASP has the whole relationship thing all figured out. “Just be yourself. You got Amy to like you once, and she was”—he searches for the word—”extremely particular.”

Stephanie emerges from the bathroom and rescues Roger from this garbage fire of a conversation. But she looks worse than when she went in. Her skin is a touch paler, and there’s a worried look in her eyes that wasn’t there before.

Ken perks up like a periscope. “You alright?”

Stephanie offers a smile, but Roger can tell it’s fake; like Meg said, it’s in the eyes. “Yeah, I’m just… I must’ve ate something funny.”

“Or maybe you’re pregnant,” Roger says, trying to needle her. 

Stephanie laughs. Ken’s skin loses about two shades of color at the joke. “I doubt it,” Stephanie says, “but stranger things have happened.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor,” Ken suggests.

“It’s probably nothing,” Stephanie says. “Just a stomach bug from traveling. Don’t worry so much.”

“What else will I do with my time?” Roger says.


	6. Chapter 6

3 p.m. brings Roger’s daily conversation with Meg. “I called three schools today,” he tells her, feeling both proud of himself and like the world’s biggest doofus.

“And?”

“Well, two of them already closed their applications for next semester, but Utah and FSU are sending me applications.”

“That’s great!” Meg squeals, loud enough that Roger jerks the phone away from his ear to avoid hearing damage. But he’s addicted to her enthusiasm, enough to keep him initiating these conversations. “I can help you with the applications if you want.”

“Isn’t that cheating?”

“Nobody has to know,” Meg says, and Roger can hear her mischievous smile over the phone. “Oh, hey, do you still have the cat?”

“Yeah, for now. No one’s called about her yet.”

“That’s really sad. It’s like she was abandoned.”

Roger tries not to think about that. He can understand abandoning a person—people can be shitty—but a pure-hearted animal? “I hope not. Maybe she just slipped out the door when the owners didn’t notice.”

“And they still haven’t noticed after two days?”

“Maybe they’re out of town,” Roger suggests, though even he hears how lame that one sounds. 

“It’s funny,” Meg starts in her ‘innocently confrontational’ voice, “you give people the benefit of the doubt when it comes to the cat, but not where you’re concerned.”

“Nice try. But the cat probably isn’t an accused murderer.” Roger doesn’t shy away from speaking the phrase out loud; he hopes saying it over and over will desensitize him to those two words. Maybe someday he won’t feel the sting of a hot knife between his ribs every time he hears them.

“You never know with cats,” Meg says, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “They’re finicky.” There’s a short moment of silence, then: “Have you ever been to Utah?”

“No. Have you?”

“No. We should take a road trip when you get accepted.”

“ _When_ I get accepted? Very clever.”

“C’mon, we both know it’s a done deal if they’ve already sent you an application. It’s the University of Utah, not freakin’ Harvard.”

“Between you and me, I prefer Florida State. But beggars can’t be choosers, and if Utah’s the only place that’ll have me, then that’s that.” 

Roger lets his mind wander to thoughts of what his life might be like if he is accepted. He will rent an apartment close to the school, much like he’s doing now. Dustbunny will be his only form of companionship, since the trial has burned a fear of socialization into him. It will take time to shake his fears of social rejection and humiliation. He will lie awake in bed and create a fantasy life in his head, a life where he is successful and respected and loved. A life where he will wake up next to someone…

Roger becomes aware he hasn’t said anything in response to Meg, and the silence is probably getting really uncomfortable. “Meg?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” Roger has no idea where he’s going to take her. He’s flying blind here, because if he thinks about what he’s doing for longer than two seconds the Entity will talk him out of it. 

There’s the briefest pause on the other end, as though this question has taken Meg by surprise. Then she says, “I would,” and Roger hears the smile spreading in her voice. “What do you have in mind?”

“It’s a surprise.” For both of them. “Why don’t you come over around seven and find out?”

* * *

It’s one of the longest four-hour periods of Roger’s life. By giving Meg ample time to accomplish household chores and prepare for the evening, Roger has allowed himself too much time to ruminate. The Entity curls itself around his inner thoughts like a weed.

_You’re going to take her out in public? Did you forget what happened last time? And at Stephanie’s wedding reception? Do you really think she won’t be embarrassed to be seen with you?_

“I’ll be better this time,” Roger says, talking to the cat as though she’s voicing the Entity. “I won’t freak out.”

Dustbunny just stares at him, her tail swishing back and forth.

“Hey, I wasn’t always like this,” Roger insists. “I was a normal person for almost thirty years until all of this bullshit happened. I can be that person again, right?”

Dustbunny meows, as if to say, “What’re you asking me for? I’m just a cat.”

“Do you think it’s too late for me? Am I stuck like this forever? This insecure, pathetic fucking waste of space?” Roger doesn’t know why he’s asking the cat; it’s not like Dustbunny can give him an answer. Or maybe he wants a chance to vocalize these secret fears without receiving a response that’s either pandering or brutally honest. Meg flits between both extremes, and it can be frustrating; whichever she offers is never what Roger wants to hear in the moment.

He changes his clothes twice before settling on jeans, an orange shirt, and a white blazer. He styles his hair three different ways—parted on the left, the right, then a mess of curls—until saying “fuck it” and going with the right part. He meticulously trims his facial hair to achieve the right amount of scruff. There’s not much he can do about the dark circles under his eyes, so he’s just going to hope Meg doesn’t notice, or that they don’t faze her anymore.

Meg arrives at precisely seven o’clock. Roger wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans and answers the door. Meg’s wearing a pastel floral print dress with impossibly thin straps. Her hair is tied up, the way he’d seen it the first time they met.

“Looking sharp!” she says, placing a hand on his elbow. The touch, however platonic, stirs something inside of him. He has not been touched in so long. “So what’s on the menu tonight?”

“You like Japanese food, right?”

“I _love_ Japanese food,” Meg says, studying his face with a curious expression. “You know how to make it?”

“No. That’s why we’re going out.”

Meg’s eyebrows raise in surprise for a moment then lower, as though she’s trying to temper her reaction. She knows what this means for him, but she seems caught between wanting to praise him for this step and not wanting to seem patronizing. “You’re right; I am surprised.”

He locks up the apartment and leads her to the Impala. “Cool car,” Meg says as he opens the door for her. “How long have you had it?”

“It was my first car,” Roger says. “So about ten years. It’s a ‘67.”

Meg takes stock of the immaculate condition of the interior. “Not even a scratch.”

“You know what they say about men and their cars.” Roger switches the radio to a station that might be more Meg’s taste and gets them on the road. Meg tugs at the hem of her dress, and Roger can’t stop thinking about gliding his hands up her golden-tanned legs to feel the silky skin of her thighs. 

“Tell me something,” Roger says, trying to distract himself from that lovely thought. “How is it you’re able to do all this for me? Don’t you have any other friends besides me and Stephanie? You seem like the kind of person who makes friends easily.”

“I have friends, but a lot of them have their own stuff going on too. Between work and dating, it’s hard to find the time to get together. So usually I just make phone calls.”

“Have you ever had to turn down a movie or a concert or something because of me?”

Meg’s nose scrunches in a cute little way. “Not yet.”

“Do you usually play therapist when you talk to your friends?”

“Sometimes,” she says with a shrug, “but that’s just how friendships work anyway. If you can’t commiserate with someone, are they even your friend?”

Roger thinks of all the people in his life he considers friends: Stephanie, Meg, Carol, his parents, and even Ken to some extent. All of them are people he can tell his troubles to and not feel like a burden.

The restaurant is dimly lit for the night crowd, with soft wall sconces and overhead chandeliers providing illumination. Meg orders a shrimp roll, while Roger goes for the pork ramen and a bowl of beef and rice. Even with the anxiety itching under his skin like thousands of ants, Roger finds it almost impossible to tear his attention away from Meg. She is intelligent and patient and kind and beautiful, and it continues to amaze him that she enjoys his company.

_Don’t be an idiot,_ the Entity whispers. _She’s only here for the free food._

Except Roger doesn’t think that’s true. Despite Roger’s flaws, Meg is willing to help him work to be a better version of himself. Somehow, she looks past the blemishes on his personality and sees him for who he truly is, who he _was_. She has seen the worst of him, yet he has seen nothing bad in her. 

_Does it even exist_ , he wonders. Roger wants to see the ugly parts of her, the dark secrets she keeps behind that winning smile.

“What’s the worst thing about you?” he asks. “The thing that sometimes makes you wish you were a different person.” He watches her expression. “Everyone has that, right? It’s not just me?”

Meg lifts an eyebrow. “It’s not just you. But aren’t we supposed to brag about ourselves on dates?”

_Date._ The word pierces Roger’s skin like a needle. “Is this a real date, then?”

Meg looks around. “I’d say so. If you want to get technical, this is our third date, fourth if you’re counting the wedding reception. I don’t remember Dear Abby ever laying out the rules for this sort of thing.”

Roger can tell she’s being evasive. “You’ve told me plenty of unflattering things before. What makes this different?”

“And you thought _I_ was mining for information?”

“What was it you said? ‘If you can’t commiserate with someone, are they even your friend?’”

“I _did_ say that,” Meg says, clearly wishing she hadn’t. She taps her chin with a chopstick, considering whether—or what—to tell him. “Alright… I hate how afraid I am of being alone. And I hate that when I’m with someone I’m still not satisfied, because there’s this voice in the back of my head that keeps telling me I’m not worth sticking around for.”

Roger pauses, his chopsticks suspended over the ramen bowl. How could Meg, this human ray of sunshine, be afflicted by the Entity? “You hear the voice too? You seem like you’ve got your shit together.”

“Fake it ‘til you make it, right?”

“Who wouldn’t stick around for you?” Roger wonders aloud. “You’re wonderful. Maybe you remember all the awful things you’ve done and thought and said, but no one else knows about them. I guess it’s a ‘if a tree falls and no one hears it’ sort of thing.”

“I never liked that expression,” Meg says, nabbing a piece of sushi. “Yes, of course a tree makes a sound when it falls. Whether someone’s around for it or not is irrelevant.”

“Maybe you’d prefer this version: if a Bigfoot roars in the woods—”

“You’re never going to let that one go, are you?” Meg interjects, though she sounds more amused than angry. “Just for that, you have to answer your own question. What do you hate most about yourself?”

“Do you have all day?” Roger says. Meg actually glares at him, and it’s such an unusual expression on her that it startles Roger out of his dour self-loathing. “Fine, fine. I hate that I’m poison to the people around me.”

“You’re not, though. And let’s say you are poisonous: poisonous to stupid people who get caught up in hysteria. What have you really lost?”

“I liked being able to disappear in a crowd.”

Meg points her chopsticks at him. “And once you’re enrolled in FSU—or University of Utah—you can disappear again.”

But Meg will be the one who disappears, and this makes Roger’s heart ache.

“We’re the person we have to live with every waking moment,” Meg says. “We could stand to be gentler with ourselves.”

“I will if you will.” Roger can’t stand knowing Meg dislikes herself. It makes no sense, because she is the most magnificent person Roger has ever met.

Meg smiles, more genuine this time. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Roger watches her take a dainty bite of sushi; then his gaze is pulled to the hand holding her chopsticks, how vibrant her pink painted nails are. He doesn’t remember her nails being painted before. Did she paint them just for tonight?

Roger gestures to them with a chopstick. “You painted your nails?” Girls love when guys notice stuff like that, right? 

Meg nods. “I bite my nails when I get nervous, so I try to stop myself by painting them.”

Roger hasn’t noticed Meg biting her nails around him, but he has to push. “Do I make you nervous?”

“Just the opposite. I feel very safe with you.”

“You feel safe with the alleged murderer?”

Meg pouts as though chiding him for referring to himself that way. “Imagine that.”

The rest of the evening flies by in a whirl of conversation. Roger is vaguely aware of the din of chatter, the clinking of glasses, the sizzle of food in the wok and on the grill, but Meg is the epicenter of his focus. Their meals finished, they share a bowl of green tea ice cream and watch the night pass by through the window. “There’s something very calming and romantic about the night,” Meg says. “Don’t you think?”

“I used to think so. When I was with Amy, we would go skiing up in the Cascades. She’d rent us a room at one of the primo lodges, and we’d sit out on the upper deck and look at the stars.” It’s probably a faux pas to talk about your ex when you’re on a date, but Roger gets the feeling Meg doesn’t mind all that much.

“I have a similar memory with Nick, but we never went skiing.”

“Nick… Which one is he? The jerk?”

“No, he was the nice one.” A flicker of sadness crosses Meg’s face, and Roger immediately wants to cheer her up.

“Hey, what’d we say about being gentle with ourselves?”

Meg smiles, just briefly, and it lifts Roger’s heart into his throat.

The drive back to Roger’s apartment is shorter than he expected, and the whole time he’s gathering his nerve to kiss her. But Meg cuts through all the pretense and does it for him. Inside the apartment, she kisses him deeply, hungrily, and Roger responds in kind, crushing her body against his own. Her lips are sweet and glossy. Her fingers tangle in his hair, driving him wild. He wants her more than he has wanted anything in a long time.

His heart feels like a frantic sparrow banging against the walls of his ribcage. He inhales a deep breath through his nose and takes in the sweet scent of her perfume. The smell of her ignites his blood, and Meg barely has time to step out of her heels before Roger lifts and hauls her against the nearest wall. 

Meg makes a stunned noise of shock and arousal, and Roger steps closer, pressed between her legs. He bites her lower lip, his hands pushed underneath her dress. Her skin is hot to the touch, and she chokes on a groan when his fingers hook in the waistband of her panties. He tugs them down her thighs and touches two fingers to the most delicate part of her. Meg gasps, her entire body tightening and pushing forward. She's drenched down there already, and Roger slides his fingers, making her shake.

Meg reaches out and fumbles with the front of Roger's jeans, and that's a green light if he's ever seen one. She pulls his shirt off and over his head, then he's pushing inside of her, hands clutched underneath her thighs as he buries himself with a groan. 

Surrounded by her tight, wet heat, Roger can’t stop himself from shaking. What follows is a sloppy, frantic minute of kissing and humping, punctuated by their breathy moans and the occasional word of encouragement. It's not the most romantic sex Roger's ever had, but with the noises Meg's making he knows no one has ever fucked her like this before. 

Her fingers dig into his shoulders, and he feels the hot clench of her around his cock as she breaks apart. It's dizzying and invigorating, and he follows soon after, breathing hot against the slope of her neck. Gently, he settles her down, and puts her feet on the floor again so he can touch her. She watches his hand play between her legs, and her thighs quake.

“That was...” She doesn't finish; she can’t seem to find the words for it. 

Roger kisses her throat, then a spot right above her left breast. He finds the zipper of her dress. She slides it off her shoulders and leads him to the bedroom, where they do it again, slowly, deliberately.

* * *

Tonight's dream features Meg, but there's nothing erotic about it. Roger strangles her during sex, and something in his brain screams at him to stop, his rational side pounding the invisible walls of madness, but he keeps going until she is gone, her body slackened.

Roger wakes up with a panicked shout. Through the darkness of his bedroom, he sees Meg lying beside him. Terror grips his throat. Was he really only dreaming? He can’t breathe. The sparrow in his chest takes flight, and he’s almost certain he’s going to pass out until Meg stirs and rolls onto her side. Her bright blue eyes peer up at him in the darkness.

“You okay?”

Relief crashes into him. “Yeah... Just a nightmare.” Roger scrubs a hand through his hair, rubs his aching eyes, trying to smother the memory of the dream that has left him shaken.

“What kind?”

“The bad kind.”

Meg offers a tired half-smile as she sits up. Roger catches a tantalizing glimpse of her naked chest before she draws the blankets up to cover her. An oddly endearing gesture, since his mouth has touched almost every inch of her bare skin. “Were you reliving something that happened to you, or was it about something you're afraid might happen?”

“They're all over the place lately. But this one was... pretty bad.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Okay.” Meg settles in beside him, resting her head on his chest. “Then we won’t.”

“That’s unlike you.”

Meg hums a drowsy sort of laugh against his skin. “Hush.”

Roger slides an arm underneath and around her, runs his fingers over the plush skin of her arm. “Why did you stay?”

“’Cause I like you,” Meg says with a tiny laugh. “Why else would I kiss you?”

“I assumed you were just trying to get to the sex.”

“Then I wouldn’t have bothered kissing you first.” Meg spreads her fingers across Roger’s chest. “I have to leave in a few hours, but I don’t want you to think I’m abandoning you. Or that I regret what happened.”

“By ‘what happened’ you mean multiple mind-blowing orgasms?”

Meg laughs, scarlet coloring her cheeks. “I think you came in my brain.”

“I hope that pill is extra-strength.” He traces a finger along the length of her leg, up to her knee. She shivers, and his hand skims up to grip the toned muscle of her thigh. 

Meg shifts so his hand can find another place to explore. She groans at the touch of his fingers. Then he’s kissing her throat, the slope of her breast, and opening his mouth around an inviting pink nipple. Meg gasps a shaky noise, her fingers curling in his hair. Roger bites at her other breast, just enough to leave a faint red ring of teeth there, a reminder of their time together. He eases her onto her back, kissing her lean stomach and her inner thighs, enjoying the tense and quake of her body as his mouth travels over skin. 

Her breath quickens, her hands tugging at his hair, pulling him toward the spot that needs his attention. Roger puts his mouth on her, and Meg makes the hottest sound he's ever heard. Her thighs fall open, her hips sort of pushing into his tongue, and Roger gives her what she needs. His two-day-old stubble makes her squirm, the trail of his tongue drawing out moans and sighs.

“Has anyone done this to you before?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” she whispers, her voice wrecked. “But it wasn't very good.”

Roger smirks and resumes his mission. He sucks and licks and teases, his tongue darting inside of her, tasting her slickness, then he hums around her, and she shakes apart with pleading whimpers. He lingers there for a while, tasting all that he can, and she's still catching her breath when he surfaces.

The orgasm helps her fall back asleep, but Roger lingers awake for a while. The next time he opens his eyes, Meg is gone. In place of her is a note that reads: _Don’t be a stranger! :-) Love, Meg_

He puts on fresh clothes and goes to the mailbox. No one has replied to his ‘lost cat’ poster. He thinks he’ll keep Dustbunny anyway. 

Inside his mailbox is a packet from the University of Utah. Roger smiles despite himself. He hurries back to his apartment and finishes his cat chores. When he’s done, he tears open the packet and finds a fresh application. He’s halfway through when a knock on the door startles him, his concentration shattering.

He assumes it must be Meg or Stephanie, so he’s doubly surprised when he opens the door and sees two men standing there. Roger can sniff out a cop when he sees one: ugly suits, big guts, short hair, weary faces. Not to mention the gleaming badges holstered on their hips.

“Roger Cowell,” one of the officers snarls, and Roger recognizes him. Detective Chris Hagen had been one of Seattle’s finest involved in railroading Roger for the murder of Mandy Nelson. His mustache looks like it belongs on a child molester, and Roger can see his own reflection in Hagen’s sunglasses. 

The second cop speaks up. “Detective Richard Burton. You already know Detective Chris Hagen. We’d like you to come with us, please.”

“What’s this about?” Roger asks, managing to keep the shake out of his voice.

Burton scowls at him. “Playing stupid, huh?”

“Am I under arrest?” Roger figures it’s a safe assumption, considering his status among the local cops as ‘the one who got away.’

“You were a law student. Don’t you know we read people their rights before we arrest them?”

“I won’t talk to you without a lawyer present,” Roger says.

“You’re not under arrest,” Hagen says.

“Sure as hell seems like it. You guys wouldn’t go to the trouble of tracking me down if I wasn’t a person of interest.”

How would it look if Roger refuses to cooperate with the police? Like he’s guilty. Like he’s hiding something. He learned his lesson from the last time he talked to the cops without an attorney present. He’d been so assured of his innocence that the idea of being framed never entered his mind. He’s prepared now.

Roger says, “Alright, Five-Oh. Let’s go, but get my lawyer on the phone.”


	7. Chapter 7

Roger is no stranger to the interrogation room of the Seattle Police Department, and it’s bringing back visceral memories. He waits with his attorney Eileen Kendall, and he can feel the dread creeping into his veins. Whatever the cops think he did, he couldn’t have done it. But they’ve already railroaded him once, and now that he’s “escaped” justice, it’s a safe bet they won’t let him get away this time. 

The door opens, and detectives Hagen and Burton enter the room, each of them clutching a manila folder. Hagen drops his folder on the metal table separating him from Roger. Conveniently, it opens to a gruesome photo that instinctively makes Roger flinch away. 

“We’ve got you now, you piece of shit,” Hagen growls. 

Eileen just scoffs. “Drop the scare tactics. If you had anything on my client, you would’ve arrested him.” 

Hagen ignores her, focusing his attention on Roger. “Where were you last night around 3 a.m?”

“At home. In bed.”

“But of course no one can verify that, now can they?” Hagen sneers.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Roger says. “Ask Meg Starke. She was with me all night.”

“So you weren’t anywhere near West Bellevue?”

“You know where my apartment is,” Roger says.

“What about Lake Sunderstone?”

“No.”

Burton opens his own folder and reads from one of the pages. “And yet we have more dead girls strangled and brutalized in a wooded area near Lake Sunderstone State Park. And more bite marks, just like the ones on Amanda Nelson.” 

“Now wait just a hot minute! Your dental experts proved those bite marks couldn’t have come from my client’s teeth.” Eileen is heated now, her southern drawl more pronounced. 

“He said it was inconclusive,” Burton corrects her. “Not impossible.”

Hagen cuts in. “You and your client manipulated the justice system.”

“Oh please,” Eileen says with an eye roll. “Your case was flimsier than a frat boy’s dick.”

Burton flips through more papers. “Mr. Cowell, did you know either of the victims?” He places a headshot of the girl Roger recognizes as the missing Susan Thompson on the table. Roger shakes his head, but it’s clear Detective Burton doesn’t expect him to know her. It’s the second photo that sends Roger’s heart crumbling into dust. Something hard and painful builds in his throat. It might be a scream, or maybe a sob. 

Amy Ogden stares up at him from the second headshot.

“No,” he says, his hands and voice trembling. “No, it can’t be her. Please, tell me it’s not her.” With a shaking hand, he reaches for the crime scene photo Hagen dropped earlier. He hadn’t recognized her at first, on account of her being dead and pale and covered in dirt, but a closer look reveals the truth. He knows that face as well as he knows his own name. Her white blouse is covered in blood dried to the color of chocolate milk. There are hand-shaped marks around her neck, coiled and red. Her arms and legs are bitten to the bone in a dozen places, as if her body was ravaged by hungry bears.

The photos behind it show more of the same, though this body—presumably Susan Thompson’s—shows signs of decomposition.

“You have my client’s samples on file,” Eileen’s saying. “Run them against whatever the perp left at the scene and see if they match up. I shouldn’t have to do your goddamn jobs for you.”

“We’re running tests now,” Hagen says. 

The longer he stares at the photos, Roger feels his eyes pulsing in their sockets.

“But you brought him in, why, exactly?” Eileen counters. “To catch up on old times? ‘Cause you sure as hell don’t have anything on my client. Unless you plan to blame every crime in Seattle on him.” She scoffs and rises from her seat. “Let’s go.”

Hagen holds up a hand to stop her. “We can hold Mr. Cowell for up to twenty-four hours, counselor. That should be just enough time for the tests to come back.”

One of the reasons Roger chose Eileen Kendall as his attorney is her tenacity. She does not back down from a challenge, a trait which takes most men in these professions by surprise. They don’t expect a woman to go toe-to-toe with them. “I’ll go to the governor,” Eileen says. “Tell him harassing an innocent man is apparently sanctioned by the Washington state government. You’ll be lucky to write traffic tickets.”

Striking a cop where he lives. Hagen grits his teeth, like he wants to tear into Eileen but fears the repercussions. “Now just hold on a second. What we have is a link to your client and Miss Ogden. Not only were they ex-lovers, but we have a witness who saw and spoke to your client at Miss Ogden’s home on Monday. That witness just so happens to be Mayor Kissel.”

“I don’t care if your witness is Ronald friggin’ Reagan. Did he see my client commit a crime? No? Then you’re wasting our time with this nonsense.” Eileen turns to Roger. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

Smoking a cigarette outside the police station, Eileen says to Roger, “You know, you were a real dumbass to go with them.” Roger barely hears her, feeling hollowed out like a Halloween jack-o-lantern. “Remember the first time you played nice with the cops?”

He had been colossally stupid, voluntarily talking with the police about Mandy’s disappearance, thinking he was being helpful. He had nothing to hide, no wrongdoing on his part. What could they have done to him?

What a fool he used to be. 

His mind goes around and around, thinking not only of Amy—poor, sweet Amy—but of how all this awful business is starting again. And it will be worse now, because while his connection with Mandy was tenuous, his relation to Amy goes much deeper. It will appear like a crime of passion, especially in the wake of Kissel’s witness statement. A terrible news headline rises in Roger’s mind: 

Mayor’s aide Ogden is serial killer Cowell’s final victim

He can’t do this again. He just _can’t_. 

_I wish I was dead,_ Roger thinks, knowing full well how easily that could be arranged. Stephanie will not arrive to save him this time.

“Look,” Eileen says, exhaling smoke, “I’m sorry about your friend. That’s an awful way to find out someone you love is gone. But I’m not your grief counselor. I’m just your lawyer. And as your attorney I’m telling you: unless they arrest you and read you your rights, tell them to fuck right off.” She takes a final drag off the cigarette and drops it to the concrete, stubbing it out with her shoe. “Take care of yourself,” she says as she heads to her car. 

“Uh, wait,” Roger calls after her. “Can I get a ride?”

* * *

The KIRO news studio bustles with so much activity Meg fears there’s been a declaration of nuclear war. Almost everyone in the station is huddled around the fax machine. Meg elbows and _excuse me_ s her way through the crowd. “What’s going on?” she asks, though her voice barely registers over the jumble of murmurs and exclamations.

Janice Broderick, one of the station’s morning reporters, looks up from whatever the fax machine has spit out. Her eyes lock onto Meg’s, and fear registers in her gaze. No, not fear. _Worry_. “Meg, oh, he’s done it again!” she wails, pulling Meg closer by the sleeves of her blazer.

“Who? Reagan?” It doesn’t register to her that this much of a commotion could be over anything besides a presidential address or governmental decision. 

“No! The Sunderstone Slasher!” 

Meg has never heard the murder of Mandy Nelson referred to that way, and it dawns on her with horror that there must be another body.

Janice snatches the fax out of the hands of Aaron, the station’s sports reporter. “Hey!” he barks at her, but doesn’t make a move to grab the paper back. 

Janice holds the fax inches from Meg’s face. “Look! He killed _two_ this time!”

Meg takes the paper in order to focus on the print. It’s a fax from the Seattle Police Department, probably from an inside source. Two photographs greet her with a slap. One is a headshot of Susan Thompson, the UW co-ed who’d gone missing last week. The second is a photo of the woman on Roger’s refrigerator—Amy. According to the press release, her full name is— _was—_ Amy Ogden. In this photo, she’s wearing a green blouse to complement her eyes. Her brown hair hangs past her shoulders, and her smile is full of confidence.

All of the “Sunderstone Slasher” victims have been brunettes. Meg wonders if she ought to bleach her hair to be safe, or be really daring and go for red. 

She doesn’t need to read past the photos—the sinking feeling in her gut serves as intuition—but she can’t help herself. She’s the type of person who will always look at a car wreck on the side of the highway, and perhaps that urge has something to do with why she’s investing so much time in Roger. 

The crowd begins to disperse, breaking off into small groups of two and three to chatter about the breaking news.

Both Susan and Amy’s bodies were found in the woods of Lake Sunderstone State Park this morning. There were no concrete details on cause of death just yet, but the fax includes parentheticals that strangulation is likely, based on the cause of death for Mandy Nelson. No other details are included, and Meg supposes her colleagues will spice up the report when it hits the evening news. 

“Shit,” she murmurs. Immediately, she worries for Roger.

“It’s him, you know,” Janice says, pushing up her thin-rimmed glasses. “That Cowell guy. Aren’t you friends with his sister?” 

Rhetorical question. Meg should never have told any of her co-workers about Stephanie. She had been foolishly naive, especially back when Roger had been named a suspect in the Mandy Nelson murder, to think her association with Stephanie and, by proxy, Roger would earn him any goodwill. 

“He didn’t do it,” Meg says. Or, at least he couldn’t have done it last night. But Roger isn’t even a violent person. They haven’t argued yet, but when they do, she suspects he’ll retreat and sulk rather than shout or throw things.

“You sound pretty sure of that,” Janice says, critical.

“I am.” Meg looks at the fax again. “Amy Ogden wasn’t reported missing by the time her body was found, which means she must have been killed sometime last night. I was with Roger last night. We had dinner.”

“You had dinner with a killer?” Janice shrieks. This brings the room’s attention onto the two of them, though Meg bears the brunt of it. _This must be how Roger feels all the time_ , she thinks, suddenly feeling an even deeper connection with him. 

“Keep your voice down,” Meg hisses. “And yes. We were at his sister’s place; she just came back from her honeymoon.” Just bending the truth a little; it’s not as though she’s the one accused of killing anybody. But without the lie, Janice will crow about Meg’s date with Roger and miss the point entirely. 

“So he did it after dinner,” Janice says, shrugging. 

“No.” Meg knows this because she spent the night with him. But if Janice freaked out over a simple dinner date, she’d lose her goddamn mind if she knew Meg slept with an accused killer. “He drank too much at dinner and passed out on the couch. He sleeps like the dead.” The irony of this statement isn’t lost on her. ”An earthquake couldn’t have roused him.”

Janice shakes her head, as if Meg is a lost cause due to her trust in Roger, and this gets Meg nettled all over. “You don’t know that for sure. Face it, Meg, he’s the best suspect the police have—”

“Oh, shut up, Janice,” Meg snaps. “The cops have plenty of other suspects, but Roger was the only one we paid attention to.” _We_ , as in the media. “So he’s the only suspect anyone remembers.”

“We just reported what happened,” Janice says, perhaps feeling attacked; she had been one of the many reporters at KIRO to talk about the developing story of Mandy Nelson and Roger’s involvement.

“He was never charged. Think about that. If there’s no evidence strong enough to make a case, what right do we have to play judge and jury?” 

Janice gives her a patronizing look. “I think you’re too close to this,” she says.

Meg decides she’s through arguing with someone who won’t see sense. More importantly, Roger can’t be alone right now. “Maybe you’re right,” Meg grits out, and the ease with which she disentangles from the conversation speaks to how little she means this. “But I have to go. Tell Brad it’s a family emergency.” Brad is the station supervisor, and on another occasion she might stick around to find and tell him herself, but every second counts here; if Roger dies because she chose to fulfill some step in workplace bureaucracy, she’ll never forgive herself. 

She rushes out of the news station and heads for Roger’s apartment.

_I didn’t see a way out. So I swallowed a bunch of aspirin with half a bottle of whiskey. Stephanie found me and had the paramedics pump my stomach. We were supposed to go out that night. I guess she showed up right as the pills started to kick in._

Meg swallows the nervous bile building in her throat. There’s too much traffic. She won’t make it in time. “God damn it!” She bangs her fists against the steering wheel, and the horn makes her utter a small scream of frustration and surprise. 

Maybe Roger doesn’t even know. Maybe she’ll speed all the way to his apartment and barge in only to find him in bed wondering what the hell’s going on. 

_Don’t be stupid,_ she tells herself. _Of course he knows_. Roger would be the first suspect, especially after he visited Amy a few days ago. Had his visit been _on_ the day of the murder? She can’t remember, only recalls hearing the name and seeing the photo of Amy from Roger’s refrigerator—with Roger himself cropped out, of course. The details escape her, but she’s certain Roger must know by now. 

She takes the nearest exit, pushing the Beetle’s speedometer along the back roads to Roger’s apartment. She’s half-amazed no one pulls her over for speeding, though all the cops are probably busy chasing leads on Amy’s murder. If she does get flagged, Meg figures she won’t stop until she gets to Roger, even if it means a police chase. She will pull up in front of his apartment and explain: _I was out of my mind, worried that my friend is in there trying to kill himself. Kick down the door and see for yourself. You know CPR, right?_

She makes it there undisturbed. She rushes up to the door, certain she’ll have to use the tire iron in her VW’s trunk to break the window. But the door swings open, and the stale odors of whiskey and vomit hit her nose. Meg’s heart catapults into her throat. She doesn’t think she can move, doesn’t think she can bring herself to see what waits for her. But the anger and fear broiling inside her command her feet to move, and she’s stepping into the bedroom. Meg sees the empty bed, its sheets and blankets rumpled, sees the night table with an open bottle of aspirin. Beside the pills is a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Not much of the whiskey is gone, but Meg’s more concerned about the pills. 

_Maybe he had some aches and pains and washed down two Bayer with whatever was on hand. Don’t their commercials brag about a dose of Bayer preventing heart attacks?_

No, Meg can’t assume ignorance on Roger’s part here. Not when Roger’s admitted to a suicide attempt. Not when he warned her about something like this.

With a shaky hand, Meg picks up the pill bottle and peers inside. There are about twenty pills left. Maybe— 

A harsh cough to Meg’s left makes her jump. She rushes toward the direction of the sound. Inside the bathroom, Roger’s hauling himself into a sitting position on the tile floor, using the toilet for balance. He coughs again, and the sound is a snoring rasp of air that sends gooseflesh prickling over Meg’s skin.

“Roger!” Meg crouches beside him and helps get him upright. “How many did you take?”

Roger grumbles something that might be _I’m fine_ , then clutches the ring of the toilet bowl for dear life. He chokes out a sputter of bile. 

“How many pills did you take? How much did you drink?”

“What’s not in me’s in there.” Roger lazily jerks a thumb at the toilet. His words are slurry and weak. Meg takes a quick look—she is too familiar with the lies of depressed addicts to trust him entirely. There’s a sprinkle of half-dissolved pills in the bowl. Roger spits into the bowl again, wipes his lips and chin with a fistful of toilet paper. He drops the paper in and flushes.

Meg takes Roger’s face in her hands. His color is weak and pale. “I thought you were fucking dead! You have no idea what that’s like, do you?” 

Roger’s eyes slip closed, and he pushes his sweat-damp hair off his forehead. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“Did you try to kill yourself?” 

“The bottle’s not empty, is it?” Roger asks with an uncalled-for amount of sass.

“If you’re not straight with me, I’ll call an ambulance and let them deal with you.”

“No!” Roger’s bloodshot eyes spring open, and he clutches at Meg’s arm. “No, you can’t. The papers will—” He abandons that train of thought, too groggy to put it into words. “I’ll look even more guilty.” 

“You’ll look guilty if you kill yourself,” Meg reminds him. “But that didn’t seem to stop you.”

“Meg, I’m sorry.” Roger sobs, but his body is too wrung out to produce tears. He clings to the front of Meg’s blouse, his head hanging as his shoulders quake with dry sobs. “Please. I don’t—I fucked up. I fucked up. I’m so sorry. I’ll do anything you want, just don’t take me to the emergency room.”

For a moment, she sees her father, drunk and pathetic, and the resemblance enrages her. “Is that Roger talking or Mr. Booze and Pills?” Because if Roger still wanted to die, he could stall Meg until the deadly cocktail finished the job. That is, assuming he didn’t puke it all up.

With great effort, Roger raises his head. His eyes are doped-out and dreamy, but still somewhat sane. There’s a bit more color in his face than before, though not enough. “If I really wanted to kill myself, I would’ve tried harder.”

Yes, Meg supposes there are more surefire ways Roger could have punched his own ticket: blowing his brains out, slitting his wrists, or even hanging himself from the ceiling fan. He hadn’t swallowed all the pills; the capsules were neatly removed from the bottle, and Meg doesn’t remember seeing any stray pills on the bed, the floor, or even on the tile beneath them. And who the fuck tries to overdose on aspirin? They’re not even extra-strength.

Meg drops the toilet lid down and gets her hands underneath Roger’s armpits. “Let’s go. Up.” She rises to her feet, trying to lift him. Roger manages to stand, and his legs work just long enough for him to get seated. Meg turns on the bathtub’s cold tap and pulls the shower pin.

Roger chuckles a drunken sound. “Babe, now’s a hell of a time to shower together.”

“You said you’d do anything.” Meg hauls him toward the tub—no easy feat considering Roger is taller and heavier than her. But Roger makes it easy for Meg and climbs over the rim of the tub. His teeth chatter as the cold water hammers him, and he leans against the tile wall, his eyes squeezed shut. 

“I’ll go quietly, but only for you, honey.” His waterlogged T-shirt becomes transparent against his skin. Roger glances down at himself. “Do I win the wet T-shirt contest?”

Meg folds her arms over her chest, sitting on the toilet lid. “You think this is funny?”

“Hey, if you can’t laugh at yourself—”

“I thought you were dead!” Meg tries to shout, to imbue her voice with the anger swirling inside of her, but all that comes out is pain. She says it again, the words shaking in her throat. “What were you thinking?”

A strange expression comes over Roger’s face, which is steadily gaining back its color. It’s a look Meg hasn’t seen before, a look that says some internal cellar is caving in. “You know exactly what I was thinking.” Roger tilts his head back against the tile and lets the water smack his face. His voice trembles with the cold as he speaks. “They’re going to railroad me again. And they’ll find a way to charge me this time. A jury will be too eager to convict. I’m better off dead.”

Meg shakes her head. Her eyes flood with fresh tears. “That’s a lie.” 

“Not from where I’m sitting.”

“Roger—” 

Roger stops her by raising his hand in a warding-off gesture. “I know. My brain is fucked. I’m at the end of my rope here.” He shuts off the shower spray, and they listen to the _glug-glug_ sound of the drain swallowing the water. Droplets fall from his hair and hit the tub in soft _plinks_. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t go through this again. I’d rather die.”

“Well, you won’t.” She isn’t sure if she means he won’t die or won’t go through another harrowing trial-by-media, but the ambiguity serves its purpose. She leaves him there for a moment and raids the fridge for the most disgusting thing she can find. He has to throw up again, just once more, so she can be certain he’s emptied his stomach. Driving to the Safeway for a bottle of ipecac will take too long. As she expected, she finds a jug of rancid milk; every lonely bachelor seems to keep one in his fridge. She returns to the bathroom, holds the open jug of milk under his nose. “Smell this.”

As if on command, he does, and retches into the tub, hard enough to splash his face with water and flecks of his own vomit. It’s a sturdy lurch, and Meg is satisfied, though she sticks the jug back into the fridge, just in case. Roger groans, bracing himself on the edge of the tub as he tries to stand up. Meg takes a towel from the nearby rack and sets it on the toilet lid. Roger climbs out of the tub and turns the shower on again to wash away the chunks of effluvium.

_There’s something tragic about seeing someone as they really are. It ruins them._

Meg retrieves some fresh clothes from Roger’s dresser drawers. She sets them on the bathroom counter and stands outside the door with her back to him for privacy while he changes. She has seen him naked, but this feels more intimate, a kind of exposure neither of them are ready for. She shuts her eyes, fighting the hot tears that threaten to spring forth. 

She is stricken with a sudden hatred of herself; she’d gone to Florida to escape the suffocating, desperate hold of her father, but after the plagiarism debacle, she needed the comforts of home. Regardless of how miserable she felt every time she had to turn her father onto his side after his nightly drinking binges, or throw him in the shower to sober up, or force him to vomit after he unthinkingly downed a painkiller with booze. It was familiar—the devil you know, as the saying goes—but she hoped her father would be the only depressive in her life.

Of course, she must have known Roger had problems when she first approached him. She wasn’t so naive to assume he’d be totally stable. But she hoped… What _had_ she hoped, exactly?

“Don’t tell Stephanie about this,” Roger says, and the faucet spurts to life. “Please.”

“I can’t be the only person watching out for you.” _Seems like it’s a full-time job_ , she wants to say, but knows that will make him spiral. The last thing he needs to hear is the implication that he’s a burden. “The people who care about you need to know you’re hurting.”

“Not her. She’ll kill me.”

“I thought you wanted to die.”

“You think she’ll make it painless? Besides, she can’t go to prison. She’s got her whole life ahead of her.”

“I don’t need to tell her anything,” Meg says. “She’s smart. She’ll put the pieces together when she sees the news. Maybe she’s on her way here right now.”

Roger groans.

Meg figures it’s time for a plan of action. “If the police are focused on you, then we need to give them another suspect.”

“Kissel was there,” Roger says, his voice muffled as he scrubs a soapy washrag over his face. “When I went to see Amy. He’s the cops’ star witness.”

“Then we’ll start with him.”

“You’re going to interview the mayor?”

“I can try.”

“Good luck with that,” Roger says, dismissive.

“It’s better than doing nothing,” Meg snaps. She’s still upset with him, hating what he’s done and hating herself for holding it against him. 

By the time Roger is dressed and cleaned up, Stephanie and Ken have arrived. Roger shoots Meg a silent look, as if pleading with her not to reveal what’s happened here. 

Stephanie wraps him in a tight hug. “Oh God, you have no idea how worried I was,” she says, half-sobbing into his shoulder. “Are you holding up okay?”

“I didn’t kill her,” Roger says, numbly, and it breaks Meg’s heart that he feels like has to exonerate himself to his own family. 

“Yeah, no shit,” Stephanie says, as though Roger’s guilt has never crossed her mind. She sits him down on the couch, with Meg and Ken joining them. 

Roger looks weighed down, like the tragedy of the situation is finally sinking in. “You guys didn’t have to come.”

“Shut up. Of course I did,” Stephanie says, hugging him closer. She rests her chin on his shoulder. “You’re my brother.” She doesn’t say ‘ _and I thought you might try to kill yourself again_ ’, but she doesn’t have to; Roger seems to hear it loud and clear.

“She meant a lot to you,” Ken says. “Of course you’d be torn up.”

Roger shakes his head before dropping it into his hands. “Meg, Steph… You need to be careful. After what’s happened to Amy, it’s possible whoever’s killing these women might be targeting people I know.”

“You think someone’s trying to frame you?” Ken asks.

“I’ve been the prime suspect for so long. Why not try to pin it on the guy everyone already thinks is guilty?”

Meg makes a mental note to look into the other victim, Susan Thompson, and see if there’s a connection with Roger. She’s not counting Susan’s status as a UW student; it’s a big school, and Meg needs something more concrete to properly link her to Roger. But when two of the three victims already have a link to him… 

For the briefest moment, Meg is assailed with doubts as to Roger’s innocence. When exactly had he gone to see Amy? Monday, was it? Meg was only with him last night and Wednesday night; she can’t account for the rest of the week. It’s not _impossible_ that Roger, furious and heartbroken over Amy’s rejection, might have returned to her home for nefarious purposes. In fact, if he’d done it Thursday night, Amy’s absence might not be too worrisome—

No, all of this is nonsense. Meg isn’t foolish enough to think she can detect a killer through a sixth sense, but she doesn’t think a guilty man would leave so much room for error in a suicide attempt. He doesn’t _really_ want to die, because he still has hope the truth will exonerate him. Or maybe she _is_ fooling herself, only with backwards justifications rather than some kind of psychopath radar. She believes in the existence of aliens, Bigfoot, and other cryptids; a jury would not find her a credible witness. 

If she intends to investigate, she has to allow for the possibility that Roger is, in fact, guilty. Monsters, after all, don’t always look like monsters; sometimes they wear human disguises.


	8. Chapter 8

While Stephanie and Ken keep Roger company, Meg figures it’s as good a time as any to speak with Mayor Kissel. Opportunity knocking and all that. She makes a few phone calls and heads for the mayor’s office. 

City Hall is, like most municipal buildings, drab and adorned with wood paneling. Her heels click on the marbled tile floor as she approaches the desk of the city clerk. “Hi, I’m Meg Starke. We talked on the phone. I’m here for just a few minutes of Mayor Kissel’s time.” 

They hadn’t agreed that Meg would be allowed an interview, but in her time amidst reporters, she’s learned persistence is half the battle.

The city clerk is a middle-aged man with an intimidating mustache. He frowns at her—at least Meg presumes so; she can’t see his mouth underneath the ‘stache—sizing her up. He seems to recognize her, because his expression brightens. “Oh. You’re the young lady on the news, aren’t you? The one who does the weather?”

Meg smiles. “That’s me.”

“You have to understand,” Mustache starts, but his tone is softer now, “it’s been a tough day for Mayor Kissel. There’s been a”—he pauses, ever so slightly—”death in the family.”

“I know,” Meg says, solemn. Time for another little white lie. “That’s why I’m here. I’m—I was—a friend of Amy’s. I thought maybe Andy could fill in some of the blank spots, give me some closure.” Does it make her a bad person if lying like this doesn’t cause some moral conundrum? Meg doesn’t know, doesn’t much care in the moment.

Mustache nods as though he understands. He doesn’t seem to question how Amy Ogden, an up-and-comer in Washington state politics, might know a weathergirl from Seattle’s leading news station. But Meg has a personal connection to the man accused of murdering Amy, so crazier things have happened. “I’ll buzz you in, young lady.”

Meg thanks him and flashes a winning smile. She sits in the nearby waiting area until a door opens. 

“Miss Starke?” Mayor Kissel is tall and perfectly pressed; he reminds her of Roger, albeit trading dark hair for fairer, redder locks. While he looked somewhat smug and self-assured on his electoral billboards, Kissel has none of that confidence now. His eyes have the same shattered glaze she has seen in Roger’s own: the look of a man who knows his life is irreparably changed. She feels a pang of guilt over coming here to dig for details, but Meg supposes the police must have grilled him harder than she intends to.

Meg rises and shakes his proffered hand. He leads her inside his office, which is just about what she figured the office of a mayor would look like: wood paneling, shelves crammed with books on politics, ethics, and government, and a few framed photographs on his desk. The desk is cluttered with documents, though that’s also to be expected.

“It’s great to meet you,” Kissel says. “I love you on TV.”

“Thank you.” If Meg had a dollar for every time she heard that line… 

“Amy liked you too,” Kissel adds, sadly. “Your outfits, mostly. She’s a bit of a clothes horse.” He catches himself and sighs. “Shit, it’s really unbelievable that she’s gone.”

“I’m surprised you’re here and not, y’know, taking an off day. No one would blame you.”

Kissel shrugs and sits behind his desk. “I need something to keep me occupied. And I’m sure being here rather than home looks suspicious, but my conscience is clear.”

“Sometimes that doesn’t matter,” Meg says, sitting across from him in a small, uncomfortable chair.

Kissel nods like he knows where she’s going with this. “Amy had an ex who got lambasted by the press. I can see how they’ll try to pin this on him too.”

“So you don’t think he did it?”

“Amy never thought so, and she knew him better than I did. She felt bad about dumping him when the whole thing came out. But she’s a career woman first and foremost. Even a whiff of scandal would destroy her before she even started.”

Meg decides not to argue the ethics of that one, especially with someone who works in government. “When did Amy go missing?” She recalls some details from the leaked report, but not all, and getting Kissel’s view of things could be helpful.

“She didn’t. We weren’t living together, so I didn’t notice she was gone until this morning.”

“When was the last time you saw her?” 

“Last evening. She left work, and I walked her to her car.”

“What time was that, if you remember?”

“Around five-ish?”

That exonerates Roger, then, since it’s unlikely he could have rushed to West Bellevue, killed Amy, buried her at Lake Sunderstone State Park, and then rushed back to his apartment for his date with Meg within two hours. Meg’s surprised to feel relief wash over her at the realization.

“Any phone calls?” she asks.

“I didn’t call last night. Maybe I should have. But it wouldn’t have been unusual for her not to answer.” Kissel shuffles some papers on his desk. “The police said someone broke in, which I guess wasn’t hard to do. I was always harping on her to get some kind of security system installed.”

Meg supposes it’s pretty daring to break into someone’s house to murder them. Not unheard of, but ballsy nonetheless, especially a house in Amy’s well-to-do neighborhood. She has no idea which angle to approach: did Amy know her killer? Was it random? Opportunistic? Was it someone trying to pin the blame on Roger? 

The fact that Amy was buried along with Susan Thompson stands out as strange. Is it unusual for a killer to use a particular site as a dumping ground? Probably not, but most of the cases Meg has heard about involved multiple bodies discovered on someone’s private land. Not a public place with an inherent risk of discovery. 

“What do you know about Lake Sunderstone State Park?” Meg asks. 

“I’ve always heard it’s haunted,” Kissel says with a tiny half-smile. “When the cops told me Amy was found there, I don’t know, I felt like maybe…” He trails off, shaking his head as if shaking away the thought.

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe the rumors about that place are true?”

“What rumors? I’ve heard it’s haunted too, but never known why.” She knows, of course, but wants to hear it from him. If he’s aware of the stories surrounding the area, he might be happy to talk, and maybe it will jar something loose.

Kissel nods and begins to explain, “Way back in the 1800s, a group of pioneers came from North Dakota to Washington. They bumped into some Native reservations on the way, and one of the rumors is that the whole group had a curse put on them by one tribe or another for trespassing.” He shrugs. “I don’t know about all _that_ , but anyway, by the time the settlers reached what’s known now as Lake Sunderstone, they were starving, and the weather was getting bad. Some of them had already died from sickness, but they were still running low on supplies. They’d already eaten a few of their horses by this point.”

_Cannibalism,_ Meg thinks, familiar with the story and knowing where this all eventually leads. 

“This is where details get muddy,” Kissel says, “because most of the facts are taken from recovered journals written by members of the party. But once they died, obviously, it’s up to speculation. But one of the men in the group, I guess he wanted to cut the dead weight and keep moving. He killed two of the stragglers who were already on their way out and ate them for sustenance. Which, understandably, freaked out the rest of the group. According to the journals, the group buried their dead, and planned on having a meeting whether to kick the guy out, but there are no entries after that night. Legend has it that he killed and ate the rest of the party.”

“So, like the Donner party, but with more murder?” Meg says.

Kissel manages a chuckle. “I guess you could say that. I think this predates the Donner party by a couple of years, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there were way more incidents of things like this happening back then. But people probably remember the Donner party more because there were a lot of survivors. Here, only the one guy survived and went on to tell his tale in bars. That’s how they found the bodies, ‘cause the guy wouldn’t shut up about how he ate a bunch of people in the woods.” 

“You seem well-versed in the park’s history,” Meg says, intrigued.

Kissel appears to sense that she’s not accusing him of anything. “Ghost stories are my guilty pleasure. Amy thinks they’re a bunch of nonsense, but I’ve always been fascinated by that kind of stuff.”

“Me too,” Meg says, grateful to find honest common ground with him. “Do you believe in it, or is it just something fun?”

“I definitely believe. Cultures all over the world have their own ghost stories, dating back before phone lines and radios and even written language. Even if some of those stories can be explained away by modern science, you can’t dismiss _all_ of them.”

“You think the park is still haunted after almost two hundred years?” Meg asks.

Kissel shrugs again. “Some of the journals mention shrill, maniacal laughter in the darkness of the woods, or seeing a shadowy shape amongst the trees, but the pioneers who wrote those journals were half-delirious with starvation, dehydration, and just basically being near death. So…” He makes a weighing motion with his hands. “I don’t know how much stock you can put into something like that.”

“What about you?” Meg asks. “What do you think?”

“I’ve never been to that park, and I don’t intend to—especially not after this.” Kissel sighs, looking crestfallen.

Meg doesn’t want to upset him too much, but she still has questions. “What about Amy? Did she make a habit of going there?”

“Maybe she went a few times. Most locals have been there at least once, right? But I don’t think it was anyplace significant to her, if that’s what you mean.”

_So the park is important to the killer, not the victims_ , Meg thinks. “What about enemies? Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt her?”

“It sure would be nice to have a bunch of angry letters or creepy phone calls to point to and say, ‘it’s probably this guy,’” Kissel says sadly. “But I can’t think of anyone who could hurt Ames.”

“Not even her ex?”

“He just seemed sort of pathetic. Of course, that isn’t proof of anything, but Ames knew him pretty well, and she seemed to think he wasn’t a threat. He came by a few days before, actually,” Kissel says, avoiding the acknowledgement of Amy’s death. “He wanted to patch things up, but she told him they were through. If his visit made her feel unsafe or in danger, she didn’t mention it to me.”

“Do the cops know this?”

“Sure. I told them everything I told you. Save for the spooky stuff.”

Which means the police will be gunning even harder for Roger. 

“It’s been nice talking to you,” Kissel says, not unkindly, “but I think I ought to get back to work.”

Meg nods and rises from her seat. “I understand. Thank you for your time.”

* * *

Meg would rather not slow down on the investigation, but she knows Roger needs a friend right now. After leaving City Hall, she stops at a nearby Safeway and picks up Friskies for the cat and some soft, easy foods for Roger’s sensitive system. By the time she makes it back to his apartment, Ken and Stephanie are just leaving. They trade watchman duties, like guards exchanging shifts. Meg feeds DB, who slowly crawls from her hiding spot under the bed to partake of a meal. Roger’s lying on the couch, watching music videos on MTV and drinking from a glass of ice water. 

“Did you find out anything?” he asks her. 

Meg fills him in on her visit with Mayor Kissel. Roger scoffs. “Haunted, my ass. If anything, the killer’s hiding behind the park’s history, hoping people blame it on ghosts or bad luck.”

“Why would he do that? Don’t killers like this want the attention?”

“It depends. Serial murderers are varied, just like any other group of people. Some of them want notoriety, some don’t,” Roger says. Meg gives him a curious look, wondering how he knows this. As if reading her mind, he says, “I was a law student. I took a few criminology courses.”

Meg sighs. “You really were the perfect scapegoat.”

“Almost too perfect,” Roger says, like he’s going somewhere with that, but shrugs it off. 

“I’ve been thinking about our next steps,” Meg says. “Maybe I could talk to the groundskeeper at Lake Sunderstone. Whoever it is might have seen something.”

“What’s my role?” Roger asks, and Meg runs through her previous statements, noticing she’s included Roger in them. “What can I do?”

It would be unwise to let Roger tag along, even as protection. No one will want to talk to her with an accused murderer in tow. “You can do research. And finish your application for University of Utah. Despite what the cops might have told you, you _can_ leave town.”

Roger manages a half-smile. “And what exactly am I researching?”

“I’ll bring some books by tomorrow. You’re probably going to hate it, but it might help to look at things with fresh eyes, and you’re the only pair of those I have.”

“You want me reading up on fake monsters?”

“I think the folklore of Lake Sunderstone is important somehow. I just don’t know why exactly. Didn’t your criminology classes mention anything about the importance of where a body is found?”

“Sure,” Roger says, begrudgingly. “It can tell you how the killer feels about the victims, or something about the killer himself. If he’s leaving bodies in the dumpster or the landfill, he might view the victims as trash. And if he’s using multiple sites, you could use each point to figure out what area he might be centered in.”

“A constant, recurring site has to say something about him.”

Roger takes a long drink of water. “He’s playing up the haunted history.”

“Except the news hasn’t really paid much attention to that angle. And returning to the same spot would be really risky, right? Especially now that two bodies have been found in the same place.” Meg realizes something. “The cops will be watching the park, don’t you think? To see if he comes back.”

Roger appears to consider this. “Makes sense. If he’s smart, he’ll lay low for a while until the heat is off.”

“Well, let’s hope he’s _not_ smart so he gets caught.”

“That may mean another body,” Roger says. “And if I’m right, and this guy’s trying to frame me personally…” He looks at her, protective and possessive, and heat prickles under her skin. “You could be in danger. I don’t like the idea of you going around interviewing people on your own. Or going home alone. I know you don’t need a chaperone, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Meg doesn’t much like the idea of Roger worrying about her either, and thinking about him left to his own devices overnight worries her. “I could stay here for a few days. Would that ease your mind?”

His face brightens, like he never even considered it. “If that’s what you want to do.”

“What I want is to make things easier for both of us, and that seems like the way to do it.” And, yes, a part of her she’s unwilling to acknowledge _is_ nervous about a serial killer on the loose targeting young women with long brown hair. 

* * *

Later, Meg brings a suitcase and a garment bag full of clothes over to Roger’s apartment. She plans on only staying a week, just long enough for him to regain his equilibrium. 

“What are you thinking?” she asks that night while they’re in bed. He has been quiet, and she doesn’t know what to make of that. 

When Roger turns to look at her, Meg studies his face in the moonlight. His eyes are dark and full of concern. “Do you really want to know?”

Meg supposes she doesn’t, not when he puts it that way, but she can’t handle any more surprises. “I want you to feel comfortable sharing things with me, even if you think I won’t like them.”

Roger slides an arm behind his head. “You’re right, you know, about trying to find the killer. It’s what I should have been doing all along instead of feeling sorry for myself. But I guess I knew no one would want to help me find the answers. It’s like…” He pauses, as if thinking of his next words. “People _want_ to believe it was me, because that means the search is over. It’s scary to think some unknown menace is out there lurking in the dark, blending in amongst the crowd. Pointing at someone and saying ‘it’s him’ removes the fear of the unknown.”

“And people don’t like to be wrong. It’s a wound to the ego. Sometimes they just dig their heels in harder, even in the face of evidence that proves otherwise.”

“Psychology, right,” Roger mumbles, as if reminding himself how Meg might know that. She smiles to herself, charmed that he even remembers her college major. “I hate that I can’t do this on my own. Finding this guy shouldn’t be your burden to bear.”

“You can make it easier by taking the research seriously.” Meg leans against Roger’s shoulder, laying her head there.

“Sure. It’s important to you.”

“And _you’re_ important to me,” Meg reminds him. “Don’t forget that. Maybe I’m being selfish, making it about me. And bringing up Stephanie and your parents would probably be wrong too, but…” She trails off, trying to gather her thoughts. “I don’t know how to beg you not to try something like that again, without reminding you there are people in your life who care about you. People love you, and we wouldn’t be better off if you were dead.”

“Thanks, Meg,” Roger says after a moment, as though afraid if he says any more he’ll fuck up whatever intimacy they have here.

She has done all she can for him today. Meg lies awake until she hears Roger’s breathing level out to the slow respirations of sleep, then to the soft snores of a man truly dead to the world. 

* * *

The dirt is like wet flesh beneath Meg’s feet, and her entire body shakes as she shovels earth. Roger digs with her, stabbing the shovel into the ground as though seeking vengeance on the dirt. Meg pauses and casts a brief glance at the still form of the girl they are burying. Her throat is bruised with ligature marks, her skin a lifeless shade of pale.

Around them in the woods, birds call from the trees, making shrieking noises in the night. Meg is all too aware that she doesn’t want to do this, but her body moves of its own accord, as if controlled by a puppeteer. She continues to shovel dirt, her flesh creeping, like being touched by invisible hands. The dead woman—Amy? Susan? Meg almost recognizes the face but can’t place it—disappears under piles of soil. Meg is aware of her shirt sticking to her back with sweat. 

A voice nearby startles her. She looks at Roger, presuming it must have come from him. But Roger’s looking past her, and Meg follows his gaze to see an enormous, bipedal figure standing only feet away, all glittering eyes and bared teeth. In the darkness, Meg sees the outline of curving horns.

_The devil…_

The creature opens its mouth. Its long, dirty tongue unrolls, and the devil laughs.

* * *

Meg bolts awake. Her heart pounds in her chest, her mind still twisted in the realm of the nightmare. Sweat drenches the front of her T-shirt. Adding to her terror is the disorientation of waking in a bed other than her own. Roger’s sleeping form beside her brings comfort and recognition, before she slides out of the bed and slips into the bathroom. She runs the faucet, splashing cold water on her face. The icy sensation on her skin helps wake her up and separate her further from the dream. 

Meg fights the human urge to glance at her reflection. Maybe this is part of the dream too, and upon looking into the mirror she’ll see that awful demon creature again.

Roger shifts in the bed, awakening as if he’s sensed Meg’s distress. “You okay?” he murmurs, one eye open.

“Bad dream,” Meg says. She returns to the warmth of the bed, feeling foolish for allowing the dream to take such a hold of her.

Roger throws an arm around her and brings her close. “Sorry.”

Even half-asleep, Meg understands Roger must carry some guilt over his suicide attempt and her gentle reminder of his value. “It wasn’t about you. I guess I just spooked myself.” Acknowledging this calms her down, the awareness of her own imagination’s ability to create frightening dreamscapes. Of course she would have vivid dreams after hearing that spooky story about Lake Sunderstone State Park. It’s no different than having nightmares after watching _Halloween_. 

When Meg wakes again, Roger is already up. She finds him in the kitchen cooking eggs on the stovetop. “Good morning,” he says, looking healthy for a man who tried to kill himself almost twenty-four hours ago. 

Meg sees the carton of eggs he’s using is the one she bought yesterday, so there’s no risk of food poisoning from expired eggs. Roger follows her gaze. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I cleaned out the fridge. Everything’s within the expiration dates.” He slides what looks like an omelette out of the skillet and onto a nearby plate. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Like that is fine,” Meg says, pointing to his plate. Roger hands her the cooked eggs before cracking a few into the skillet for himself. “You wouldn’t have any hot sauce, would you?”

“Check the pantry.”

Meg does, and she finds a half-full bottle of Tabasco sauce near the corner. “I’ll bring you some books from the library,” she tells him over breakfast. “Then I’m going to the park to see if I can talk with the groundskeeper.”

“I don’t like you going there alone, even if it’s in the middle of the day,” Roger says.

“Your concern is noted,” Meg says, playful, though she isn’t crazy about the idea either. “But we figured there would be an increased police presence, remember? And it would be really stupid for the killer to come back so soon. I should be fine.” But as Meg recalls the glittering eyes and chilling laugh from the dream, she wonders if a human is behind the murders at all.

* * *

It’s a bright summer Sunday, so Meg wears shorts, high top sneakers, and a casual T-shirt to the park. Lake Sunderstone State Park is located at the south end of Lake Sunderstone in King County. Today, there are a handful of boats on the lake, and plenty of beachgoers looking to soak up rays along the coast.

The visitor's center is a short walk away from the parking lot. Inside, the building looks like a typical forestry office: wood paneling, framed paintings and photos of natural beauty, the scent of pine in the air. Meg introduces herself at the front desk.

“Oh, you’re that sweetheart on the weekly weather,” the old woman behind the desk says. The nameplate on her desk says _Gladys._ She reminds Meg of her own grandmother, with eyeglasses hanging on a chain and her greying hair styled in a bouffant. “What can I do for you, dear?”

“I was wondering if there was someone I could talk to about the park’s history, or maybe someone who might have been watching the grounds over the last week or so,” Meg says. She doesn’t know which avenue to take here: pretend Amy was a friend—and risk being caught in a lie or shuffled off to the police—or pretend she’s involved in a news story about the park, which comes with its own set of challenges. Maybe she should play it safe and only supply information if she’s asked. Gladys doesn’t appear suspicious of Meg’s motives yet. 

“You’d want to talk to Ranger Michaud about that. Let me get him for you.” Gladys picks up the phone on her desk and dials an extension. Meg thanks her and waits in a nearby chair. There are pamphlets on a small table, and Meg leafs through them, though she doubts any will detail the macabre history of the park. For a moment, she feels a sense of deja vu, as if repeating her meeting with Mayor Kissel. 

“Miss Starke?” A male voice calls her name, and she supposes this is Park Ranger Michaud. He is of average height, with dark hair and a bushy mustache. He shows her into his small office, which is decorated with wood carvings of forest animals like bears and moose. 

_Yes, certainly a bit of deja vu_ , Meg thinks, sitting in a chair across from his desk.

“Gladys said you wanted to know about the park’s history?” Michaud says when they’ve settled in.

“I read some of the pamphlets. I know all this used to be native country, and the nearby towns were mostly for coal mining and logging. What I’m really interested in is… I guess you’d call it the odd history. You don’t find bodies in every state park.”

“No, you don’t,” Michaud agrees, sounding cautious. “At least not the way those girls have been found.”

“So there have been other deaths in the park?”

Michaud hesistates, as though realizing he may have said too much. “We try to prevent such things, but human error is inevitable. There have been a few drownings, a handful of boating accidents causing injuries and property damage. And now these poor women.”

“Could they have been visitors to the park?”

“It’s possible. We don’t keep logs of that stuff—people are free to come and go as they please here—so I’d have no way of knowing.”

“How often do you patrol the grounds? Do you see any regulars? How about anyone suspicious?”

Michaud raises an eyebrow. “You some kind of reporter?”

“Not exactly—”

“’Cause since they found those bodies yesterday, I’ve been hounded by every journalist and cop for twenty miles.”

“I’m not a reporter,” Meg says, wishing she had brought someone along for moral support. “I’m not even a journalist. I work for KIRO 7 as a weather presenter.”

“Doesn’t mean you couldn’t slip a few tidbits of information to a co-worker,” Michaud says.

_Sounds like you’ve got some juicy details, if you’re that worried._

Meg shakes her head. “No, sir, I won’t betray your confidences. I’m just asking questions to satisfy my own curiosity.”

Michaud studies her face, as if searching for a lie. 

“I was hoping you could shed some light on the strange side of the park,” Meg continues. “Have there been any sightings of weird things? Anything that left you scratching your head when you looked into it?”

Michaud sits back in his chair. “I don’t believe in ghouls or ghosties, Miss Starke. If that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I’m not asking you to believe in anything. The history is there: a group of pioneers got lost in these woods and fell prey to something. If the ground is spoiled, there’s got to be more unexplainable incidents.”

Michaud scoffs. “You think some kind of monster killed those girls and buried them on the park grounds?” 

Meg doesn’t, because it sounds stupid when it’s explained like that. “Not exactly. I don’t know what to believe, but I think finding three bodies on the same grounds is a hell of a coincidence. That’s why I wonder if you know of any regulars or suspicious characters. Whoever’s doing this knows the area, knows how to avoid any rangers on duty or groundskeepers or anyone who might see him burying bodies. Maybe an ex-employee with a grudge?”

“The police asked plenty of questions along those lines, and I gave them my answers. And if you’re expecting me to tell you scary stories about the bogies, you’re asking the wrong man.”

“I suppose it would be too much to ask you who that ex-employee might be?” Meg figures she might get more information out of someone who isn’t bound by a confidentiality clause; an ex-employee, depending on the circumstances of their departure from the park, might be eager to talk about all the gory details Michaud is keeping close to his chest.

“You suppose right,” Michaud says. “I don’t make a habit of giving out that kind of information to just anybody, even pretty girls from the news.”

When Meg leaves Michaud’s office and returns to the reception room, there’s a lanky old man standing at the desk and talking with Gladys. Gladys sees Meg and says, “Oh, dear, if you’re still interested in speaking with one of our groundskeepers, you’re in luck. This is George Hagmaier, our senior groundskeeper.”

The old man seems to straighten up when he notices Meg. His skin is wrinkled and weathered from sun exposure. His hair is just beginning to grey at the temples. “I’ve been tending these grounds for over thirty years, miss,” he says with a nod.

“You wouldn’t mind if I took a few minutes of your time?” Meg asks.

“Not at all. Always a pleasure to trade a little conversation,” George says. “Seems to come in short supply when you get to be my age.”

Maybe it’s uncharitable, but Meg supposes he’s too frail to be the killer, so she isn’t nervous about leaving the office and walking around the grounds with him. Roger would probably warn her about that, but he trusts no one, so he’s not exactly an unbiased source. 

“You said you’ve worked here thirty years?” Meg asks.

“Yes’m, that’s about right,” George says. “I got here just a few years after the park opened.”

“Did you find it strange that they built this place on top of ground that was supposedly soured?”

George looks at her, but he doesn’t have the skeptical eye Michaud had. “Sure I did. I always felt that sort of thing was bad luck, but in my first few years things were calm, so I didn’t think too much of it.”

“Sounds like you changed your mind.”

“You’re here on account of those bodies, aren’t you?”

“I’m investigating a different theory than what the police are looking into,” Meg admits.

George smiles, as though aware of a secret shared between them. “The cops sure won’t think of the history of this place as anything but amusing stories to tell around the campfire. But we know different, don’t we?”

Meg feels something like hope spring in her chest. “Have you seen anything?”

“I made the mistake of staying here past sunset once. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Meg glances around at the bright green trees and inviting, cozy atmosphere, as though to shake away the chills George’s words have given her. “What did you see?”

“Wasn’t so much what I saw, but what I felt. There’s a whole lot of woods past this trail, ‘round the boat launch up north of here. That’s where they found them bodies, and it don’t surprise me one bit. Nothin’ but woods for a long ways. Sounds funny to say this little park with its beaches and playgrounds is on the edge of wilderness, but it is.”

They’re following the main trail, and being able to see the beach and its inhabitants from here makes Meg feel safer.

“Anyway,” George says, “I was headin’ up past Sunset Beach to those woods, mostly lookin’ for trash to pick up or somebody who mighta got lost. It’s a skinny dirt path up there, and depending on the water levels it can all look like mud when it gets wet. So I was walkin’, and the sun was just starting to disappear. Call me crazy, but the air just feels wrong there. It’s heavier, electrical, or something. I felt goosebumps like I never had before, like someone was standin’ right beside me. But of course no one was there - no one I could see, anyway.”

George stops, scratching at his chin like an old dog before continuing. “I slowed down, tryin’ to see if there _was_ someone there, but with the sun setting the way it was, I couldn’t tell. The woods get dark out there, even when the sun’s up. The air got still around me, and I listened. I heard the cracklin’ of underbrush, and I swear I could see _something_ , though hell if I could tell you what it was. It was huge, and I thought it might’ve been a bear, but I’ve never seen no bear walk on two legs like that.”

Meg stops, an image from the dream crashing into her. That awful bipedal creature with horns.

“You alright, miss?” George asks, coming to a stop alongside her.

“You said it was standing up?”

“Must’ve been, but this was many years ago, and my memory ain’t so good anymore,” George says, like he’s trying to walk back what he’s told her with a caveat.

“You don’t forget something like that, do you?”

“I suppose you don’t.” George watches her, sees how shaken she must look. “Come on, I’ll walk you back.”

“But finish your story, please. I need to know.”

They begin to walk back the way they came, toward the parking lot where Meg’s Beetle sits. “Alright, but there’s not much left to tell. I heard something in those woods give a piercing, crazy laugh, and I high-tailed it out of there. I wouldn’t be caught dead in this park after sunset.”

“A laugh?” The devilish laughter from her nightmare echoes in Meg’s head.

“That’s what it sounded like to me. Some of the park rangers like to say it’s just loons, but I’ve never heard no loon sounded like that.”

Meg folds her arms across her middle, as if shielding herself. “Have you seen anyone suspicious around here? Or maybe someone asking about the haunted ground?”

“Aside from yourself?” George says, giving her a wink and a smile to reassure her it’s all in jest. “Can’t say that I have. It might sound crazy, but I s’pose a place like that has a certain _call,_ like a vibration that can pull someone towards it. And if that person doesn’t run away, they fall prey to it.”

Meg chuckles nervously. “You’re right, that does sound a little crazy.” But she wonders…

By the time she makes it to her Beetle, she's feeling goosebumps all over.


	9. Chapter 9

Roger has a visitor while Meg is out. At the sound of the knock on the door, DB—who was snoozing on Roger’s lap—awakens and dashes underneath the bed. “It could be Meg,” Roger tells the frightened cat as he rises to answer the door. He supposes it _could_ be, since he didn’t have an extra key to give her when she left. 

Roger opens the door and finds Ken on the other side. Immediately, Roger assumes the worst. “Is everything all right with Steph?”

Ken looks startled. “How did you know?”

“My God, what’s wrong?” Roger almost clutches the front of Ken’s shirt and drags him in, the way hysterical people do in movies, but Ken doesn’t look as if something awful has happened.

“Just a stomach bug, is all,” Ken says. “You got some kind of ESP?”

“I guess I figured something was wrong if she wasn’t with you.” Roger lets Ken inside, shutting the door behind him. He’s relieved, but still a little worried. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, probably just some bad sushi or something. She told me to come check on you, even though I thought I should stay home with her.”

Roger laughs. “That sounds like her.” He takes his seat at the table, and Ken joins him in the other vacant chair.

“You’re doing okay, then?”

Roger says that he is. “Meg’s staying for a few days. I don’t like her living alone when there’s some psycho roaming around.”

“Good idea. Especially since he’s going after girls like her.”

“Listen, I know Steph’s a spitfire, but don’t let her out of your sight, okay? After what happened to Amy, I’m starting to think this guy is targeting women I know.”

“I can protect Steph just fine,” Ken says, though Roger doubts this tall, skinny preppy-boy could fend off an intruder without the help of a gun or an axe. “Besides, what makes you think it’s one killer? Could be copycats piggybacking off each other.”

_Too many animal metaphors in one sentence_ , Roger thinks, but he supposes Ken may be on to something. “The cops seem to think it’s one guy.”

“The same cops who think _you’re_ the suspect,” Ken reminds him.

“Point taken. But cops like to withhold details from the media to trip up suspects. So there must be some link between the crime scenes aside from what’s been released.”

“You have way too much faith in the system,” Ken says. “This is the same system that chewed you up and spat you out. Cops, judges, and lawyers make mistakes all the time. When they get a theory in their heads, they usually don’t stray from it, for better or worse.”

Roger knows this to be true, and he appreciates Ken’s show of solidarity. “That’s why Meg and I are looking into other avenues.”

Ken leans in, his eyebrows raised. “Like what?” His gaze finds the textbooks on the table.

“Meg seems to think the park’s haunted history has something to do with it,” Roger says, somewhat dismissively, and he’s glad Meg’s not around to hear him. “My guess is the killer’s imitating the folklore on purpose.”

“No one’s going to think a ghost is killing these girls,” Ken says with a chuckle. “Anyway, ghosts usually can’t leave the place they haunt, right? So how could one abduct the girls and bring them to the park?”

That’s the obstacle any of those theories keep running into. “If it’s anything supernatural, it’s not a ghost. You’re right, they’re almost always bound to whatever place they were killed.” His research has taught him a few things. “Meg knows more about this stuff than me,” he says, gesturing to the open books on the table. “She’s got me doing grunt work to keep me busy.”

“That sucks.”

“I understand why,” Roger says with a shrug. “No one’s going to talk to _me_. But people like Meg, and even if they don’t recognize her from the news, she has a way of getting people to open up.” Roger’s certainly fallen for her charm. If he could lower his defenses and let her in, a person without Roger’s baggage would be happy to spill their secrets to Meg.

“She’ll need all the charisma in the world to get people to believe in monsters,” Ken says with a chuckle.

Though Ken isn’t wrong, Roger still doesn’t like his tone. 

“I’m glad to see you’re doing better,” Ken says, as if softening his previous words. “Steph was worried as hell over you. I’m sure she would have stayed the night if Meg hadn’t.”

“I’ll be fine,” Roger says. “Meg's got me applying for colleges, too, so one way or another, I’m getting a new life.”

Ken grins. “That’s great, man. I know Steph will miss you, but she’ll feel better about you being gone if it means a fresh start. What colleges are you looking at?”

“University of Utah, and I just got FSU’s application in the mail today. Meg doesn’t know about that last one yet; she’ll be over the moon.” Roger smiles, imagining Meg’s reaction when he tells her he’s got a shot at attending her alma mater. 

“You love her,” Ken says, teasing.

“Yeah, I do.” It’s never been a question in Roger’s mind, but he hasn’t voiced it until now, especially since Amy’s death. As ridiculous as it seems, he’s terrified whatever dark fate captured Amy will ensnare Meg as well, like Roger himself is a bad luck charm. 

“You gotta tell her,” Ken says, oblivious to Roger’s inner turmoil. “That’s how I landed Steph.”

Roger doesn’t think he’s ready for that. It’s not the fear of rejection that scares him—though that’s not off the table—but fear of what his confession might stir inside of her. If he’s accepted to any of these schools, he will leave Washington and start over someplace else. Confessing his love for Meg might influence her to leave with him, and he can’t ask her to give up her life here to be with him. It is his darkest, most secret desire, but with it comes the possibility of ruining this sweet, tender thing they’ve created between them. 

“Maybe when things cool down,” Roger says, having no intention of telling Meg until a college acceptance letter sits in front of him. And even then, he’s certain he will waver. “Go on home. You’ve got a sick wife to tend to. Tell her I’m doing just fine.”

* * *

Meg arrives at the apartment around four, bringing along an early dinner of Big Macs and fries. She and Roger sit at the table and eat, while DB sniffs around their ankles for table scraps.

“Do you have a phone book?” Meg asks when she’s finished filling Roger in on her visit to the park. “I want to see if there’s any paranormal researchers in the area.”

“ _Ghostbusters_ was just a movie,” Roger says, gently teasing her. “They’re not a real organization. But I guess your best bet would be some kind of university group. Colleges do all kinds of weird research.”

“Or maybe occult shops,” Meg says, thinking aloud. “Psychics, palm readers, places like that. They might know of someone, even if they’re not into that sort of thing themselves.”

“Sounds like a plan.” 

Meg appreciates that Roger knows of her interest in the paranormal and isn’t sending the men in white coats after her. Whether he truly _believes_ in cryptids is another matter, but at least Roger doesn’t think Meg is crazy. That’s far more acceptance than Meg thought she’d get from anyone, and her heart feels like a soda bottle that’s been shaken up.

Roger tells her that Ken dropped by, and he shows her the application packet from FSU. 

Meg claps her hands. “Oh my God! You would _love_ Tallahassee! Save that one, okay? I’ll help you with the application tonight! If you didn’t already have plans, I mean.”

Roger smiles, like he’s charmed by her excitement. “No plans.”

After dinner, Meg takes a quick shower and joins Roger on the bed, where he’s sitting with the FSU law school application. She sits beside him and offers advice on how to answer questions, how to make his academic résumé sound better, and how to write the personal statement essay.

“How do I explain why I dropped out?” Roger asks.

“You don’t, not unless you get an in-person or phone interview and they ask that question.” Meg points to the section of the application that asks why Roger wants to attend FSU. “Here’s where you say something like, ‘I am committed to my education, expanding my horizons, and overcoming obstacles in my path.’ Then you read through this”—Meg hands him one of the college’s pamphlets—”and grab the words they use to describe their campus when you talk about why you want to go there. Let’s say they describe it as ‘vibrant,’ ‘youthful,’ and ‘diverse.’ You could say something like, ‘I am eager to be on a campus with youthful energy, of a school where diversity is celebrated, in a city as vibrant as your university's.’”

Roger makes notes on a spare sheet of paper, writing down her suggestions. 

“According to your grades, you were a fucking honor student, and your LSAT scores were good,” Meg reminds him. “Those should get you in if your application is halfway decent. The admissions people will be impressed with your grades, your essays, and your answers. They’ll see your struggle during the spring semester, but they’ll probably think you had a death in the family or something. Honor students don’t just suddenly stop going to classes unless something’s really wrong. If the gap really bothers you, you could get a recommendation letter from one of your professors. That would show you’re in good standing with your previous school, and you’d have someone to vouch for you.”

Roger chews the end of his pen. “I could do that,” he thinks aloud, as if he has someone in mind.

“Don’t be too nervous. I know you’re really hoping for FSU, but if you don’t get in, there are other schools. And more of them will be open for applications later on. It’s not like this is your one and only shot, y’know?” Meg leans against his shoulder. “You just keep trying.”

Roger looks at her, his stare enigmatic, like he wants to kiss her. But if he wanted to, he would, since it’s something they can do now. Instead, he just gazes, as though longing for something unspoken. 

His line of sight drops from her face to her chest. “Did you go to that show?”

She forgot she was wearing her concert T-shirt from the Jacksons’ Triumph tour. “Oh! Yeah! 1981, my second year of college. It was summertime.” Her tone sours, and she frowns. “I went with Liz. And a few other friends. We drove down to Tampa for the show.”

“You still hate her,” Roger says, like he’s impressed by Meg’s ability to carry a grudge.

“I’m not ashamed to admit it. And I hate that she’s spoiled a lot of things for me. I have a lot of memories where it’s hard to separate the good from the bad because of her. It’s like a big, tangled-up mess.” Meg looks at him, imploring. “Does that make me a bad person?”

“There is nothing you could do or say that would make me think that,” Roger says, like he means it.

His honesty makes her want to kiss him, so she does. His mouth tastes like toothpaste. Roger pushes a hand into Meg’s hair, as though he wants to continue, but he breaks the kiss before things can develop. “I want to finish this first,” he says, lifting the FSU application off his lap. “Or I’ll lose my concentration.”

“I think you can take a five-minute break,” Meg says, running her hand over the top of Roger’s thigh. Roger lifts his hips off the bed in a silent plea to be touched elsewhere. 

“Only five minutes?”

“I’m impatient.” Meg gathers the applications and notepads and tosses them toward the foot of the bed. DB, who has been napping there, startles awake, but sees no danger and curls back into a tight, grey ball. “Sorry,” Meg says to the cat, giggling. 

She climbs into Roger’s lap, her hands tugging down his sweatpants to bring out his cock. It’s stiff and fleshy, precum already drooling from the head. Meg wants to lick it away, wants to take him into her mouth and feel the heat of him, but her own arousal needs tending first. Roger’s dick tightens in Meg’s hand, and he groans. As if reading her intentions, he hooks his fingers around the waistband of her panties, dragging them down her thighs. She’s already so wet just thinking about having him.

Meg settles onto Roger with a sharp little gasp. He is hot and alive inside her, and just the sensation of being full of him almost makes her come. Roger makes a choked noise and clutches her hips, as if coaxing her to move. She rides him hard and quick, her hands braced on his shoulders. One of his hands pushes underneath her shirt to massage her breast, and that feels good, feeling even better when his fingers pinch her nipple. 

Meg straightens up, her hips still pumping, so she can guide Roger’s other hand off her hip and between her legs, where the hood of her clit begs to be touched. His thumb rubs in small circles there, twisting her up and making her whole body shake. She leans back, bracing herself on his thighs now so she can fuck herself harder and faster on his cock. His thumb keeps touching her, rubbing and stroking, as if he’s learning what she likes.

Meg hears herself moaning, hears the bed creaking with the rhythm of her hips. It feels so fucking _good_ to take control of her own desire, and excitement rises in her stomach like mercury in a thermometer. The sensation of Roger spilling over makes her orgasm, though she was pretty much already there anyway. Lightning flashes behind her closed eyelids, and she shivers while Roger’s hand works her through the comedown.

Meg slumps forward onto Roger’s chest, her knees sliding over the bedspread. “I love it when you come in me,” she says, half-drowsy.

“Fuck,” Roger groans, lifting his hips to rub his softening cock against the inside of her thigh. “You are, like, the perfect woman.”

Meg laughs.

“I’m serious. I never had a girlfriend who actually _liked_ sex. At least, sex that wasn’t me giving them head. It always seemed like something they tolerated rather than really enjoyed.”

Meg wraps her arms around him. “I knew you were different,” she murmurs. “I was too afraid to do things like that with other boyfriends. They had this ‘good girl’ image of me, and I thought being horny would change how they saw me.”

“So many guys are such fucking idiots,” Roger says. “I don’t know why they’re obsessed with virginity. Being a girl’s first is hot, but that’s just one time. A girl who likes having sex is a gift that keeps on giving.”

Meg laughs again; Roger’s sense of humor is one of her favorite things about him. “I’m glad you see it that way.” She reaches down her thighs, which are still shaking, and pulls up her panties. “Being on top made me come so hard.”

“You won’t hear any complaining from me.”

If Roger makes an attempt to finish his application tonight, Meg doesn’t know, because she’s asleep within minutes.

* * *

The next day, Meg uses the phone book at work during her downtime to call various occult shops, palm readers, and psychics. Most of them blow her off, but one occult bookshop in Burien, a small suburb near Sea-Tac International Airport, seems like the right place.

“Sure, come on by!” says the owner over the phone. “We’d be happy to talk with you about Lake Sunderstone.”

Meg assures him she’ll be there. She calls Roger and lets him know her plan to head to the bookshop after work.

“Not by yourself,” Roger says. “I’m sorry. I’m playing my ‘controlling boyfriend’ card.”

“You’re not being controlling,” Meg says around a chuckle. “I’d be happy if you came along.” It’s a good sign that Roger wants to go out into the world again, even with his alleged connection to Amy’s murder being advertised in news reports.

The bookstore—Pandora’s Books—is a quaint little store that reminds Meg of a curio shop from _The_ _Twilight Zone_. As she opens the door, a bell jingles from above. The interior is warmly lit, the carpet a rich burgundy wine color. Behind the counter is a dark-haired man about Meg’s height, and probably around her age, judging by the lack of wrinkles around his almond-shaped eyes.

“Hey,” Meg says as she and Roger step through the entryway. “I called earlier about Lake Sunderstone?”

The guy behind the counter breaks into a grin. “Yes! Hello! I’m Jiang. Let me get my partner real quick.” He disappears through a doorway masked with a velvet curtain. Meg hears murmurs and whispers, then Jiang reappears with a tall, sandy-haired college-aged man with kind, sleepy eyes. He looks like he’s been smoking weed behind that curtain.

“’Sup,” he says. “I’m Toby. Let’s talk spooky stuff.”

He leads them through the curtain and behind a door to what looks like a small break room. There’s a sofa, a few chairs, and a coffee machine. On a stool, a radio quietly plays Steely Dan’s “Black Cow.” 

“Sit down, sit down,” Jiang says, so they do, because it’s polite. The sofa is worn and comfortable. It does, in fact, smell a little like pot, but Meg would be surprised if it didn’t.

Toby presses buttons on the coffee maker. “You guys want coffee?”

Meg politely declines.

“I’ll take a cup,” Roger says, and Toby brews him a mug.

“I got so excited when you called,” Jiang tells Meg, sitting in one of the cozy-looking wingback chairs. “I’ve been wanting to talk about that place for ages. Toby humors me, but he doesn’t really believe in supernatural stuff.”

“That makes two of us,” Roger says.

Toby brings a steaming mug of coffee for Roger, as well as one for himself. “Ah, I see you’re also a man of culture.” He sits in the other vacant chair, playing with the stirrer inside his cup.

Roger smiles; if either Jiang or Toby recognizes him, they aren’t obvious about it.

“But whatever’s haunting Lake Sunderstone State Park _isn’t_ a ghost,” Meg says. “It’s a flesh-and-blood creature, but I don’t know how it’s survived there so long.” She tells them about her meeting with Park Ranger Michaud.

“Oh, those guys are shady as fuck,” Jiang says. “I went there after the Nelson murder, asking the same kind of questions you did.” Meg tries to recall the name, and then it clicks; Mandy Nelson was the hitchhiker Roger picked up, the linchpin that started this whole shitshow. “When I asked if there was a list of anyone who’s disappeared from the park, they said they don’t keep lists like that.” Jiang throws his hands out, as if to say ‘what the fuck.’ “Why not?”

“Bureaucracy is terrible,” Toby says before taking a sip of coffee.

“So is the _lack_ of it,” Jiang says.

Then Meg tells them about her conversation with George Hagmaier. Jiang leans forward, his eyes practically glittering with interest. 

Toby looks unimpressed. “It _was_ a loon,” he says, dismissive, like a skeptic watching a magician.

“A loon that stood as tall as a bear on two legs?” Jiang says.

“No, that could’ve been a tall, lanky doofus like me,” Toby says. “Tall people aren’t an endangered species, Jiang.” He looks at Roger, as if seeking solidarity. “We’re everywhere.”

“But the pioneers who died in those woods reported seeing and hearing the same things,” Meg says.

“Maybe this old guy just wanted to scare you,” Toby says. “He’s a park groundskeeper. He’s gotta make his own fun.” 

“I think it’s a serial killer imitating the haunted folklore,” Roger says. “Or at least trying to use it as a springboard.”

“I love when serial killers have a fun little thing,” Toby says.

“What if you’re both right?” Jiang says. “What if it’s a serial killer _and_ something supernatural?”

The room goes quiet, save for the radio softly playing a Jefferson Starship song. 

“It’s not,” Toby says, but Jiang ignores him.

“No, listen.” Jiang stands up and walks around the room as he talks. “The folklore of the Algonquin tribes mentions a creature called a wendigo. It can be a humanoid creature, or a spirit that possesses a human and turns them into a monster. Those tribes are mostly in the Great Lakes region of the US and Canada, but there’s no rule that says they couldn’t spread out, right?”

Toby snickers. “Sorry, I’m just imagining this thing with a suitcase and a fedora. ‘I’m headed west, honey. Moving on to greener pastures. I hear Seattle is nice.’”

Jiang wheezes a laugh. “So the description of the wendigo varies depending on which tribe you talk to, but they all seem to agree on a few basic facts. It’s malevolent, cannibalistic, and supernatural. Some sources say humans could turn into wendigos through greed, cannibalism, or by being in contact with one for too long. In cases where a human resorted to cannibalism to survive, it’s known as wendigo psychosis.”

“Or just… being a cannibal?” Toby suggests. “Maybe?”

“What does it look like?” Meg vaguely remembers reading about the wendigo before, but it’s been years since she’s thought about it.

“Usually tall, humanoid creatures with pale skin and elongated limbs,” Jiang says. “They’re said to have glowing eyes, long fangs and claws. Despite their ravenous hunger, they’re almost always emaciated.”

That doesn’t entirely track with the monster Meg saw in her nightmare, but why would it? She must have created some imaginary beast out of her own fears. “Let’s say those pioneers were the first wendigo victims at Lake Sunderstone,” Meg says. “The lone survivor gets possessed by a wendigo or turns into one.”

“It can’t be the same one,” Roger says. “Not after 200 years.”

“No, but what if it chooses someone else? Creating more and more wendigos over the years?”

“Like a vampire?” Jiang says.

“Would that mean killing the wendigo who turned someone would turn them back?” Toby wonders. “I mean, hypothetically.”

“It’s got to still _look_ human,” Meg says, still running through her theory, “because it’s able to sneak into houses and lurk in neighborhoods without being noticed.”

“Imagine calling the police because you saw a giant, horned creature on two legs trying to break into someone’s house,” Toby says with a laugh. 

Jiang laughs, then stops when something occurs to him. “What if the creature in the park is a ‘true’ wendigo, the kind with a non-human appearance? And what if it can’t leave the park, so it possesses someone to go out and bring it food?”

Roger sighs. “I can’t buy into this being real. Maybe the Algonquin tribes meant for the wendigo to be more of a conceptual, metaphorical thing than an actual creature. Like how people in the Middle Ages assumed you were possessed by the devil if you did something evil. They couldn’t wrap their heads around the concept of human cruelty, so they came up with legends and mythical monsters to explain why people did evil things.”

“This guy gets it,” Toby says, appreciative.

“Roger, you saw the bite marks—” Meg starts, but Jiang cuts her off.

“Bite marks? That’s never been mentioned in the news reports.”

“I was a person of interest,” Roger says, and Meg hears the nervous notes in his voice. “The cops took dental impressions to compare my teeth to the marks left on the bodies.”

Toby looks a little nervous. “Well, I hope they didn’t match.”

“If they did, would I be sitting here?” Roger says, with an edge of defensiveness.

“Seems like the best way to disprove all this is to camp out in that park overnight,” Toby says.

“Except the killer will probably keep his distance now that the cops are watching the park,” Meg says.

“But the wendigo’s hunger won’t stop,” Jiang says. “It still needs to eat, and if he’s possessed a human… Maybe that human will keep bringing the wendigo its food, regardless of being watched.”

“Okay, it’s a little weird we’re calling dead people ‘food,’” Toby says.

“And I doubt this thing, if it’s real, has survived this long using stupid humans as its proxies,” Roger says. “What’s stopping this guy from bringing a victim to the park during the daytime? Say he cuts up the body and hides it in a duffel bag or a backpack. The cops could ask to see inside the bag, but unless there’s blood dripping out of it, they can’t stop him or make him show them the contents. Plenty of people bring backpacks and bags to the park.

“But let’s say he doesn’t want the hassle of getting stopped at all,” Roger continues. “He might go to the park during the day, lure his victim into the woods, and commit the murder there. Maybe he can’t bury the body, but he might not need to, if these are ‘offerings’ for the wendigo.” Roger frowns, like he can’t believe he’s entertaining this theory.

“Hold on,” Jiang says. “If the bite marks are human, then that means the wendigo is human. Or whoever he’s using as a proxy is feeding on them, too.”

* * *

“I still think it’s just one fucked-up human,” Roger says on the drive home from the bookstore.

“I figured the supernatural would be a tough sell,” Meg says. She has the radio on, playing softly under their conversation. “And maybe you’re right. There’s no proof it’s anything other than a run-of-the-mill serial killer.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not. It’s better if it’s a human, because a human can be tried and sent to prison. How would you put a supernatural creature on trial?”

And how will Roger’s reputation ever regain its luster if the killer can’t be brought to justice?

Roger makes a noise, like he’s conceding that she has a point.

“I think I’ll stop by Steph’s for a bit,” Meg says. “I need a break from all this crap.” She glances at him. “Want to come along?”

“Maybe some other time. I’d better get to work on my applications,” Roger says.

Meg drops him off at his apartment. After he unlocks the door, he offers her the key. “In case you get home late,” Roger says by way of explanation. Meg thanks him and pockets the key. 

* * *

From there, it’s a short drive to Stephanie’s quaint waterfront condo near Madison Park. Meg knocks on the door, and she’s surprised to see Stephanie answer. “Hey! I heard you were feeling under the weather,” Meg says.

Stephanie greets her with a hug. “It comes and goes. Come on in. I have big news.”

Meg follows Stephanie inside. Ken is in the kitchen, stirring something in a crock pot. He looks at Meg, raising his eyebrows. “Meg, nice seeing you. Care to stay for dinner? We’re having beef stew.”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Meg says. 

“No trouble,” Stephanie tells her, sitting on the couch, and Meg joins her there. A Mariners game plays quietly on the TV. “I probably shouldn’t be eating so heavy, but if I’m just eating light, he doesn’t seem to eat at all. Look at him. He’s starving to death.”

Ken _is_ looking a little thin lately, almost gaunt. “I’m not starving,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I just skip a few meals now and then. I’m so busy I forget to eat.”

“You’re not the one who’s pregnant,” Stephanie says to him. Meg’s eyes go wide. Stephanie looks at Meg with a ‘couldn’t help myself’ smile. “Yeah, that’s my big news. At least, that’s what the home test said. I’m going to the doctor on Thursday to find out for sure. But I think I know deep down that I am.”

That might explain Ken’s lack of appetite; he could be stressed over the pregnancy and becoming a father. 

“Are you excited?” Meg asks both of them.

Stephanie answers first. “I don’t know. I think I’m excited, but then I think about putting my career on hold—we wanted to open a shop in Portland—and it just gives me a headache. I’m not crazy enough to try to do it all.”

“I offered to quit my job and stay at home when the baby comes,” Ken says. “She won’t let me.”

“We’ll need two incomes,” Stephanie explains.

Meg supposes they would, especially to keep a condo in a nice area like this. “Your parents can help out, right?”

“Oh, they’d be thrilled to have a grandchild,” Stephanie says. “But it wouldn’t be fair to anyone to just shuffle the kid off to them. Especially since Mom and Dad live farther away now.”

Meg seems to sense that Stephanie needs a hug. Stephanie almost wilts in her embrace.

“Don’t tell Roger yet, okay?” Stephanie asks. “I don’t want to get his hopes up if it turns out the test was wrong.” Her voice takes a downturn. “And if I don’t have the baby… well, he doesn’t need to know.”

“My lips are sealed,” Meg promises.

Stephanie gives her a playful kiss on the cheek. “Thank you. You want a drink? The wine’s going to waste now that I’m in pregnancy limbo. Ken’s more of a beer guy.”

“I could use a drink,” Meg says. “It’s been a long day.”

Stephanie rises from the couch and removes a bottle of red wine from a small wooden wine rack near the kitchen. “I hear you’ve moved in with Roger?” she says.

“Just temporarily. After Amy was killed, Roger’s worried this guy is targeting women he knows.”

Stephanie pours a glass of wine and brings it to Meg. Meg takes a greedy swallow while Stephanie sits on the couch again.

“We’ve been trying to track down leads the police may not be looking at,” Meg explains, “but without their resources, we’re just spinning our wheels.”

“What kind of leads?” Ken asks, grabbing a beer out of the fridge.

Meg doesn’t feel comfortable talking about the paranormal to either of them. Stephanie might be her friend, but that doesn’t mean she won’t find Meg’s belief in the supernatural absurd.

“Things like”—Meg toys with the stem of her glass—“how Lake Sunderstone State Park has a haunted past. We thought maybe the killer is leaving bodies there to channel that history. Roger seems to think it’s someone who’s intentionally trying to frame him. Maybe it didn’t start that way at first; the killer just got lucky that Roger took the heat. But now he has a scapegoat to point a finger at, especially if he’s targeting women in Roger’s life.” Meg looks up from her glass. “Do you know anyone who might want to hurt him?” She asked the same question about Amy Ogden, but it’s only now occurring to Meg that Roger is a victim, too.

“Not before all this,” Stephanie says. “But there had to be someone, right? Because it’s too much of a coincidence that Roger picks up a hitchhiker who gets murdered that same night.”

“So you think someone was watching him?” Meg says.

“Or her,” Ken says. “Who says it wasn’t some old boyfriend who covered his tracks? If people know about the haunted history of Lake Sunderstone, it’s not impossible for multiple killers to use it as their dumping ground, is it?”

Meg considers this. He’s got a point, but the details of each murder match too closely to account for copycats. “Sure. But whoever killed Susan Thompson and Amy Ogden had to be the same person. What are the odds one killer would bury a body on top of another’s?”

“Were they found on top of each other?” Ken asks. “Or just in close proximity?”

“Does it matter? It’s still a hell of a coincidence,” Meg says. “And if it’s not the same killer, why do all the bodies have bite marks?” She expects to have to explain this, since the bite marks on the bodies were withheld by the police, but both Stephanie and Ken seem to know what she’s talking about. Of course they would; Roger must have told them about the dental impressions taken after Mandy Nelson’s murder.

“But do they match each other?” Ken wonders.

“The police seem to think so,” Meg says.

“The same police department that went gunning for Roger,” Ken reminds her. “And maybe they _do_ think it’s multiple killers. But they can’t say that. Imagine the pandemonium after telling the public there’s multiple serial killers in one area.”

“A lot of young women stopped hitchhiking after Mandy Nelson’s murder,” Stephanie says. “And now with this new theory of the killer targeting girls with long brown hair… My hairdresser keeps telling me to go blonde, just to be safe.”

Meg sighs. “Can we talk about something else? I know I brought it up, but I came here to get away from this crap.”

The conversation turns to more lighthearted subjects, and the three of them eat dinner on the couch while watching the Mariners game. Meg has to stop herself at one glass of wine, else she won’t be able to drive home. 

Halfway through the meal, Stephanie sets her bowl on the coffee table. “Ugh, I want to puke. Fucking morning sickness just comes whenever it wants, huh?” She rises from the couch, careful not to upset her stomach, and hurries to the bathroom.

Ken grabs Stephanie’s abandoned bowl for himself. He looks at Meg. “What? I’m starving.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Meg says.

Ken takes a bite. “Just between you and me, do you believe in all that ghost stuff?” He chews another forkful of beef and carrots. “I saw you had Roger reading a bunch of books on mythical monsters. I know he thinks it’s all nonsense, so what about you?”

Meg shrugs. “I don’t think it’s _not_ nonsense. There’s a grain of truth to every story.” She looks at him. “I’ve never been to Lake Sunderstone State Park until recently; it was too far away when I was growing up here. It made more sense to go to Bridle Trails for the state park experience.”

“Before I moved in with Steph, I had an apartment in Issaquah, so I used to go to Lake Sunderstone all the time,” Ken says. “I had some friends with water skis.”

“Did you ever feel anything weird there?”

“No. I knew about the legends, but all that stuff happened so long ago. Horrible things probably happened on every square foot of land across the world. If you think about it too much, you’ll go crazy.” Ken takes another bite. According to Stephanie, he’s been skipping meals, so it must be nice for him to have a real dinner. “And since you know going in that the place has a dark past, maybe you’re looking for something to scare you to confirm your bias.”

Meg doesn’t know what to make of that. It sounds good, and Ken’s probably right, but where does that leave Roger? Is he just supposed to sit and twiddle his thumbs until the police—who are perfectly content with Roger as their number one suspect—solve these crimes?

“Maybe,” Meg says. “I just want Roger’s name cleared.”

“Me too,” Ken says with a sigh.


	10. Chapter 10

While Meg’s at work the next day, Roger finishes his law school applications. He places a call to Rolf Miller, his professor for University of Washington’s federal law course. In hope of earning a recommendation letter, Roger’s calling his past professors in order of who he thinks is most likely to write one. Miller’s class was one of Roger’s most recent, though it was also one of the classes Roger dropped due to absences.

But he had something of a rapport with Miller before the hitchhiker incident, so maybe…

“Professor Miller,” Roger says by way of a greeting, “it’s Roger Cowell. I was one of your students last semester.”

“Oh, Roger, of course! I remember you,” Miller says, sounding pleased to hear from him. “Are you planning on enrolling again for the fall?”

“Well, yes, but circumstances have changed, and I’m looking toward finishing my law degree out of state.”

“I see,” Miller says, and Roger can see him stroking his fluffy white beard the way he used to during lectures. “I suppose you want me to write you a letter of recommendation?”

“I would really appreciate it. I understand that you’re busy, so if you don’t have time—”

“Not so fast. You’re a bright young man, and you would make an excellent lawyer. I’ve got no problem writing you a recommendation. What school are you applying for?”

“Florida State’s law college,” Roger says. His hand holding the phone begins to sweat.

“A fine university. I have colleagues who graduated there. I think you’ll enjoy yourself, getting away from all this gloom.”

Roger wonders if Professor Miller knows the reason for this out-of-state application.

“A change will be good for you,” Miller says, as though reading Roger’s mind. “It is an utter tragedy what happened to you, Roger. I wish you could continue your law career here, but things went another way, I suppose. Take care of yourself, please.”

Roger says that he will. It’s odd to hear such positivity after Roger’s been lambasted by the news media as a murderer. He expected people would want nothing to do with him, but maybe he hasn’t burned every bridge just yet.

Later, Meg comes home, and Roger tells her about his phone call.

“That’s great! I’m so proud of you!” Meg hugs him, and Roger inhales the scent of her perfume. Being this close to her makes him feel healed, as though he can absorb some of her innate goodness. “I mean it. You’re doing so well.” She takes his face in her hands and stares at him, standing on her tiptoes to negate their height difference. 

“I just want to get the fuck out of here,” Roger says before realizing how that must sound. Meg shrinks away as if cringing from a blow. There’s a wounded look in her eyes, and Roger hates that he’s put it there.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean you. You’re wonderful. It’s everything else…”

“I know,” Meg says. She tries smiling to reassure him, but it fades too quickly. “I know what you meant.”

“If I put my foot in something, I’m sorry.” Roger doesn’t want to repeat the same patterns he wore out with Amy: saying something cutting and carelessly cruel, then going off to sulk when she wouldn’t accept his apology. If he’s upset Meg, and it’s clear that he has, he wants to fix it.

“I know you didn’t mean me, okay?” Meg takes his hands in her own. Her smile looks like that of a sales clerk on the receiving end of an angry customer’s tirade: doing her damnedest to maintain good cheer. Her eyes are wet, Roger notices. “I’m just emotional today. I’m probably PMSing.”

Roger thinks that’s a load of crap; if Meg is taking birth control, she shouldn’t have PMS. But he can’t be completely sure, and it would be cruel to point out her lie and make her feel worse. 

“Why don’t I give you some alone time?” Roger suggests. “I can drop these books off at the library.” Meg mentioned wanting to return the books that morning.

“Sounds like a good idea. I’ll get a shower and fix us dinner.” Meg kisses his cheek and goes into the bedroom, where she begins searching for a change of clothes.

Roger’s gathering the books off the table when the phone rings. He grabs the receiver and hears Ken on the other line. “Roger?”

“Hey, is something wrong with Steph?”

“When are you going to stop assuming that?”

“Probably never,” Roger says. “What’s up?”

“Do you mind if Steph and I come over? She’s got some big news to tell you,” Ken says.

“As juicy as that sounds, you caught me at a bad time. I’m just about to run some errands, and Meg’s fixing to make dinner. Give us an hour, maybe?”

“Sure. That’ll give Steph time to get ready,” Ken says with a chuckle.

They say their goodbyes and hang up. Roger gets the stack of books under his arm. “Ken and Steph are coming over later,” he calls to Meg, presuming she didn’t hear his side of the conversation. “According to him, she’s got big news.”

“Ooh, I wonder what that could be.”

“Lock the door behind me?” Roger says as he leaves, his hands too full to make use of his key.

Meg does.

* * *

Meg knows it’s probably stupid to get so upset over Roger’s thoughtless comment, but she can’t help herself from letting some tears escape in the shower. Whether he included her in “getting the fuck out of here” was never in question. What hurts Meg is the idea of Roger moving away and leaving her behind.

Asking him if she can come along would be selfish and absurd. Who uproots their life for someone they’ve only known just under two weeks? But Meg thinks it’s the quality of the time they’ve spent together, not the quantity. She has seen him under extraordinary circumstances and in an array of moods. Certainly two weeks in the trenches beats two years of relative calm.

More importantly, Meg misses Tallahassee. Like Roger, she too has been driven from her comfortable home, and the thought of staying away because of one toxic person enrages her. Roger, at least, has an entire city that believes him to be a murderer. Meg allowed herself to abandon a city she loved over one friend’s betrayal.

Moving back to Seattle to watch over her lonely father was a cover story for her own embarrassment and the tangled mess of emotions the whole Liz ordeal stirred inside her. While Meg’s father may be a hopeless alcoholic, he has a handful of friends from work and his local bar, and even a sort-of girlfriend who came around a few years after Meg’s parents divorced. The only thing truly anchoring her to Seattle now is her job—a job she attained solely through her father’s nepotism, a job that feels like a total waste of her college tuition. Who pays thousands of dollars for a degree just so they can look pretty and point at symbols on a map? A fool like Meg, apparently.

She hurries through her shower, remembering that Stephanie and Ken will be coming over soon. Meg hopes she can whip together a halfway decent dinner in time, but supposes no one will complain if she ends up ordering a pizza.

Since she’ll be having company, Meg exchanges the pajamas she picked out earlier for a T-shirt and shorts. She’s about to dry her hair when she hears a knock at the front door. The cat scurries underneath the bed at the sound.

Supposing Roger has forgotten his key, Meg answers the door. She’s not expecting to see Ken standing there.

“Oh. Ken! Hi. I thought you and Steph were coming by later. Roger’s not here.”

“That’s fine. Steph’s still at home trying to figure out what to wear.” Ken chuckles, as if to say _women, right?_ “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, how the spoiled ground at the park might have something to do with the murders.”

Meg’s almost sick of hearing about the Sunderstone Slasher, but she can’t resist what might be a missing piece of the puzzle. She lets him inside, and Ken continues.

“I wasn’t being straight with you before when I said I never felt anything strange at the park,” he says. “I guess I didn’t want to scare you, but I see now that’s not easy to do.” Ken grins, and Meg can’t understand why the sight of that grin makes her want to usher him out the door. But that would be rude, and she doesn’t want to be a hysterical woman seeing shadows everywhere. Her emotions are all over the place today, as evidenced by her tears over Roger’s comment.

“It’s going to sound crazy, but that park has a kind of”—Ken searches for the word—”pull, I guess you’d say.”

That lines up with what George Hagmaier told her. Meg nods, encouraging Ken to go on.

“It gets hold of you. It’s really quite beautiful there, when the sun’s setting through the trees. A quiet, secret place.” Ken looks off, then looks back at her. “You’re right, you know. It’s got to be one person. Too many coincidences otherwise. He’s got to be clean-cut, decent looking, so the girls don’t feel threatened by him. No criminal background, since the cops haven’t knocked on his door.”

“You think he approaches the victims? They were all break-ins, weren’t they?”

“I’m just theorizing,” Ken says with a shrug. “Maybe he knocks on their door with a story about his car breaking down. If he looks the part of a nice, non-threatening guy, they might open the door. Whatever he does with them there isn’t the point, I don’t think. It’s about the burial site. A quiet, secret place where he can take his time.”

Goosebumps rise on Meg’s arms. “You think he kills them there?”

“If the soil is curdled, like the legend says, well, he’d have to. As sort of an offering, don’t you think?”

“An offering to what?”

Something flickers behind Ken’s eyes. “I think you know just what I’m talking about.”

“The wendigo?” Meg has no idea if that’s the answer he wants, but it’s the only one she’s got. 

“That’s it,” Ken says with growing glee, and Meg experiences terror so gripping she can’t move. “You had it figured out last night, didn’t you?”

Now Meg wants to gladly take on the role of Hysterical Woman and run screaming into the street, because her mind has started going over the pieces of the puzzle. She had them all along, just wedged in the wrong places.

_Before I moved in with Steph, I had an apartment in Issaquah, so I used to go to Lake Sunderstone all the time._

_What if the creature in the park is a ‘true’ wendigo, the kind with a non-human appearance? And what if it can’t leave the park, so it possesses someone to go out and bring it food?_

_Despite their ravenous hunger, they’re almost always emaciated._

Hasn’t Ken been looking gaunt lately? Meg noticed his appetite last night, though it hasn’t seemed to fill in his sunken cheekbones. 

_Some sources say humans could turn into wendigos through greed, cannibalism, or by being in contact with one for too long._

Stephanie _could_ be pregnant, or maybe Ken’s proximity is becoming toxic. Meg feels a little nauseous herself. _No, this is Ken_ , she thinks. _My best friend’s husband. This is all just a weird coincidence._

A voice whispers back, _Then explain how there are_ two _coincidences here: Roger being the perfect suspect, and Ken fitting the bill, too. Except we know Roger didn’t have time to kill Amy, so who does that leave?_

And hadn’t Ken and Stephanie just come back from Portland the same day Amy ended up dead?

_You wanted the truth so fucking bad? Well, here it is._

All these calculations take Meg a handful of seconds, but Ken watches her with close scrutiny, as if he knows the thoughts in her head.

A terrible realization assails Meg: _He’s wanted to kill me since last night, but he couldn’t do it with Stephanie there. He called to make sure I was home, and maybe he got lucky that Roger was heading out, but I’ll bet he could have found a ruse to get Roger out of here anyway._

Ken steps closer, and Meg instinctively backs away. “People like you—these ghost chasers and monster hunters—you’re like fishermen who cast their lines for years and never get so much as a nibble. But you know that there’s a real big fish down there that always gets away. The only way you’re going to know what goes on there is to go under the water. The fisherman drowns going underwater. But I can take you there without drowning.”

A cold terror slips into Meg, like being groped by a dead hand. She bolts for the door.

Ken grabs her around the waist and pulls her toward him. She smells the faint odor of decay and the charred stench of electricity. Meg thrashes in his grip, even as one of Ken’s arms curls around her neck and begins to choke her. Her legs flail, kicking at his knees, but he’s impervious to her blows, as though she’s merely an annoyance, like a fly buzzing around a horse. 

Hot knives rip down her arm. She screams a strangled sound. _Claws_ , she thinks, _they have to be claws. No way could his nails cut that deep._

Ken lets her fall, and Meg lands on her wounded arm with a bolt of pain that makes the world go gray. She scrambles for the door, crawling on her belly like a soldier in a trench. Ken clutches at Meg’s bare foot, using it to drag her away from her only escape route. Meg scrambles for something, _anything_ , she can use as a weapon, but Roger’s living room is minimal, containing only furniture Meg could never hope to lift.

Pain rips through Meg’s calf, and she screams, this time definitely loud enough to alert any neighbors. She thrashes, turning onto her back. Ken is _biting_ her leg.

_Now we know where the bite marks came from_ , she thinks, and it’s an absurd thought to have in this moment, but if she really thinks about what’s happening, she’ll never stop screaming.

Meg snarls and lashes out with her free leg. Her heel connects with Ken’s face, and she hears a wet crunching sound. A meaty chunk of her calf rips free as Ken’s head jerks from the blow. Meg crawls backwards on her hands, struggling to get to her feet. Her wounded leg doesn’t want to bear weight, flopping out from under her.

Her blood glistens on Ken’s teeth. He lunges for her, pinning her to the carpet by sitting on her stomach. Her legs flail and kick, but are ineffective. “You fucking bitch,” he growls. “Roger didn’t bother saving his own skin. Why couldn’t you leave it alone?”

Before she can answer, his claws lash out, slicing open the side of Meg’s face. She screams again, choking on her own blood.

_Roger, please, come home!_

Someone pounds on the door. “You okay in there, lady?” It’s the voice of a stranger, but Meg’s overjoyed to hear it.

Ken covers Meg’s mouth with a clawed hand—she can see her own blood on those claws—but she manages a muffled scream that her mystery savior seems to hear through the door. 

“I’m comin’ in!” the man bellows. He tries the knob and finds the door opens easily.

Ken rushes past him with almost superhuman speed. Meg hears two gunshots, then a third, farther away.

“He’s gettin’ away!” the man says before firing another shot. Glass shatters, probably somewhere in the parking lot.

Meg struggles to sit up. Blood sheets down her chin and the front of her yellow shirt, which is now a muddy red. She uses the coffee table to steady herself and leaves bloody handprints on the wood.

“Shit, be careful.” The man with the gun is at her side, helping her prop herself up against the table. “You don’t wanna hurt yourself.”

Meg sputters a laugh, flecks of blood spraying from her mouth. “No, we certainly wouldn’t want that.” The torn halves of her cheek flap with each word, and bile rises in her throat.

“Was that guy your boyfriend or somethin’?” the man asks, hurrying into the kitchen and dialing the phone.

“No,” Meg says, sounding distant. Her vision is narrowing to a small circle, like the mouth of a tunnel. “It’s Ken. Ken Roseland.”

* * *

Roger rolls into the lot of his apartment building just as an ambulance pulls out, sirens blaring. Immediately, a pang of fear strikes him, and he thinks something terrible must have happened to Meg. But that’s absurd, just the paranoia of a man who assumes the world is out to get him.

Though the world _has_ been out to get him lately, and it only makes sense to be vigilant when a prowler is on the loose, targeting women Roger knows. But he heard Meg lock the door behind him when he left earlier. She should be safe. The Sunderstone Slasher—God, Roger hates that stupid moniker—has never abducted a victim in the daytime. No reason to think he would start now.

_But there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?_

Two police cars are parked in the lot near Roger’s apartment, with uniformed officers scribbling on notepads. They’re talking with a man sitting on the front steps of the apartment next to Roger’s own. The man is smoking a cigarette. He wears glasses and has a wispy, light mustache. The front of his shirt is stained with blood. Roger vaguely recognizes the man as his next-door neighbor, though he doesn’t recall the name. This guy must have had a guest over who hurt themselves. That explains the blood and the ambulance, and maybe the police cars.

But two cop cars seems excessive for an at-home injury. Send one officer, maybe, to write a report, but two cars?

And none of this explains why Roger’s apartment is cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape.

Roger runs through all possible scenarios, and he doesn’t like any of them.

As Roger approaches, the cops turn to look at him, sizing him up. It’s clear they want to pin this on him—whatever _this_ is—but since they’ve just witnessed him arrive, Roger’s involvement seems unlikely. 

“What’s happened?” Roger asks, trying to keep the shake out of his voice. “My girlfriend was in there.” He points to his barricaded apartment door. “Is she alright?”

The cops look at Roger, then at the cigarette-smoking man. “This the guy?” one of them asks. He has curly hair and a wimpy mustache.

Cigarette Man shakes his head. “Naw, the guy had blonde hair, and was a little taller. Drove a white Capri, not a black Impala.”

“You said your girlfriend was inside the residence?” Wimpy Mustache asks Roger.

“Yes, her name is Meg. Is she okay? What happened?”

“An intruder broke in and cut up a female inside that apartment.”

_Cut up._ Roger pictures Meg severed at the head, torso, and legs. A dizzy swoon threatens to knock him over. “Jesus Christ.” He has to remind himself the ambulance lights and sirens wouldn’t have been on if Meg was dead. That doesn’t mean she couldn’t die during transport, though…

“Cut up?” Roger says, because that’s the part that’s sticking with him. “What do you mean? She was stabbed?”

“You’ll have to ask Mr. Misner,” Mustache says, indicating the cigarette-smoking man on the steps. “He supplied the statement.” With this, the cops disperse, seeming to have all the information they need.

Misner stands up and shakes Roger’s hand. The gesture of respect is bewildering, and Roger fears he’s on the brink of a panic attack. 

“Jack Misner. You must be Roger.”

Roger nods, unable to speak. 

“Your girl’s alright, I think,” Misner says, taking a puff of his cigarette. “Just lost a lot of blood. She was still conscious when they put her in the ambulance.”

Roger’s gaze fixes on the man’s bloody shirt.

Misner glances down, sees what Roger is looking at. “I heard her screaming next door, so I got my gun and went to see what all the fuss was. The door was unlocked, so I opened it. A man came rushing out, too fast for me to even see what was going on. I shot at him a couple times, but he was too quick.”

“What did he look like?”

Another puff on the cancer stick. “I thought he was _you_ , if we’re being honest. But his hair was lighter, and he was taller.”

“He got away?”

“He hopped into a white Capri and drove off. I shot out one of his windows, but it didn’t faze him.”

“So Meg’s okay? Was she stabbed?”

Misner shrugs. “I didn’t see a knife, but everything moved so fast. She had cuts on her face and her arm. Looked like he chewed on her leg.”

“Jesus,” Roger groans.

“Come on, sit down,” Misner says, and Roger is happy to do just that. He sits on the steps, almost knocked off-balance by his own grief. “She said his name was Ken,” Misner tells Roger. “Ken Roseland. You know anybody by that name?”

Roger’s heart catapults into his throat. “Ken?” This has to be a fucking dream. Won’t someone _please_ wake him up? “That’s—that’s my brother-in-law. But he couldn’t—”

Of course not. Ken has no reason to attack Meg, unless Meg knows something that could land Ken in hot water. 

Something like what?

_Looked like he chewed on her leg._

The Sunderstone victims all had bite marks.

Oh, that’s a whole new level of crazy, but when Roger really thinks about it, it doesn’t seem that crazy at all. Ken lived near Lake Sunderstone State Park at the time of the Nelson murder. He might never have intended to frame Roger for that, but things shook out that way, and maybe Ken got scared and put his career as a killer on hold for a bit. Then he moved in with Stephanie, close to the University of Washington campus, and Susan Thompson was unlucky enough to cross his path.

Ken knew about Amy’s betrayal; Roger even spoke to him about it at the wedding reception. Killing her could have served three purposes: satisfying his bloodlust, and turning the spotlight back onto Roger, as well as being a perverse favor to him. Not that Roger wanted Amy dead, but someone with Ken’s level of psychopathy might see it as a sick gesture of goodwill. All the while tightening the proverbial noose around Roger’s neck.

“Jesus, it _can’t_ be,” Roger moans, but something within him recognizes the truth, even as his mind attempts to rationalize. Meg wouldn’t lie about something like this, and he doubts her head was murky enough to misremember the identity of her attacker.

And Ken called Roger just before he left. Almost like he was making sure Meg would be alone.

Roger rakes his hands through his hair and fights the panicked sobs threatening to overtake him. 

_If there’s ever been a time to keep your shit together, it’s right now. Meg needs your head in the game. Stephanie too._

Roger leaps to his feet, hurrying to catch the policemen who are shuffling back to their cruisers. “Wait! You need to check on my sister!”

Wimpy Mustache turns, glaring at Roger like he’s being inconvenienced by the delay. “Who’s your sister?”

“Stephanie Roseland.” Roger gives him the address. “She’s Ken’s wife. She might be in danger. Hurry!”

Wimpy Mustache is in no such hurry. “According to the witness statement, Miss Starke claimed one Ken Roseland was her attacker—”

“That’s right. He might be the Sunderstone Slasher,” Roger says, the words pouring out. “Meg was looking into the murders. Maybe she was getting too close, and that’s why he attacked her.”

Wimpy Mustache doesn’t look convinced, but he radios another cop to perform a welfare check at the Roselands’ address.

Unsurprisingly, Roger doesn’t trust them to do their jobs on that count. 

He gets into his car and heads for Stephanie’s condo. Being proactive helps calm the paralyzing terror swooping through him. He has to do _something_ , or else his sanity will shatter, and he’ll never get it back.

Ken’s white Capri is absent from the parking lot of Stephanie’s building. Her own car is present, but that doesn’t quell the dread bubbling like indigestion inside of Roger. He rushes to the door and knocks. Every second Stephanie doesn’t answer fills Roger's head with a new, terrifying possibility.

He knocks again, his panic spiking, but he hears her unlocking the deadbolt by the time he’s finished. Stephanie’s brow furrows when she sees him. “Roger?”

“Where’s Ken?” Roger says, breathless, like he ran all the way here.

“I thought he was with you. He said he was going to your place.”

Roger shakes his head. “No, no, he’s—” 

It occurs to him that he doesn’t know how to break the news to Stephanie. He was so wrapped up in worrying about Stephanie’s wellbeing on the drive over, he never considered how he might tell her that her husband is a murderer—or at least that Ken attacked Meg. If he _does_ think of a tactful way to tell her, will Stephanie reject the idea entirely and push him away, putting herself in greater danger because she doesn’t believe him?

Impossible to say for sure. Roger doesn’t want to prejudice her against his advice by involving Ken, but he can’t leave her vulnerable by omitting a vital piece of the equation.

“Meg’s been hurt,” Roger says. 

“Oh my God!” Stephanie seems to see the devastation on Roger’s face, and knows he’s not talking about a papercut or a broken ankle. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there. Someone must have come in while I was out. I just saw the blood.”

“Blood?” Stephanie’s face loses some of its color. “Is she okay? I guess she is, or else you wouldn’t have said she’s _hurt,_ right?”

“I don’t know. A neighbor heard her screaming and came over to help. He chased the guy away and brought an ambulance for Meg.”

Stephanie gasps. “Oh God, do you think it was the Sunderstone Killer?”

“That’s why I’m here. You’re in danger.” Roger lays a hand on her shoulder to calm her and himself. This is the moment. “Steph, she said it was Ken. The guy who attacked her.”

Stephanie blinks, and horror registers on her face as she jerks out of Roger’s grasp. “No! That’s impossible. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know, but that’s what Meg said—”

“She could have been wrong! Eyewitnesses are wrong all the time! Maybe—maybe it was someone who looked like Ken—”

“What are the odds of a lookalike showing up at the same time Ken was supposed to be at my apartment?” Roger says, trying to keep his voice calm against her angry tone. “The guy who saved Meg—he said the attacker drove off in a white Capri. I don’t need to tell you how much of a coincidence that would have to be, a Ken lookalike driving the same color car—”

“Why would he hurt Meg?” Stephanie shouts, shaking her head as if shaking away Roger’s logic. “Everything else has to be a coincidence, because Ken would never hurt Meg or me or anyone—” 

“Look, believe what you want, but be careful, okay? I told the cops to come check on you, and if they offer police protection, you take it.”

“How dare you!” Stephanie says, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I stood by you when everyone thought you killed that girl. And you can’t even give Ken the same trust you demanded from me and our parents!”

Is Roger playing into the same sort of witch hunt that destroyed his own reputation? While Roger hadn’t been named as the attacker, he certainly had a lot of damning circumstantial evidence in his car. Maybe the two situations are more similar than he would like to believe.

Right now, though, he doesn’t much care. “Steph, please, just try to see this from my point of view. First Amy, and now Meg… I’m scared to death that something’s gonna happen to you.”

Stephanie’s expression softens a little, though she’s still glaring at him. She shakes her head again. “I understand,” she says, but Roger doesn’t think she does at all. Stephanie closes the door, and Roger hears her lock the deadbolt. 

He sighs, feeling drained. Perhaps the only way for Stephanie to see sense is for Roger to find Ken, bring him to the cops, and see what shakes loose. Would a police department even be capable of taking on a wendigo? Unlikely. The creature would move too quickly, and Roger doesn’t know if regular bullets would do the job. But silver bullets are for werewolves anyway, right? How the hell do you kill a wendigo?

Jiang and Toby—the supernatural experts—might know. No one else in Roger’s mental rolodex will believe him on the wendigo front, even less on the subject of Ken being a murderer. But those two guys will be more than happy to help, and Roger’s going to need all the help he can get.

Roger doesn’t want to just _leave_ Stephanie without some form of protection, but he doesn’t want to wait around for a cop to show up either. Besides, it would be incredibly stupid for Ken to come here, since his home is the first place the police will look. 

On the other hand, Ken might be itching for a victim, more so now that Meg has escaped his clutches. He might opt for an easy target, and Stephanie, unfortunately, fits that criteria.

Coldly, Roger hopes Ken retreats to the park and nabs some unsuspecting stranger. _If someone else has to die, let it be a stranger._ Call him callous, and he probably is, but he would gladly trade the life of a stranger if it meant keeping his loved ones safe.

Sulking, he returns to his Impala to begin the journey to the bookshop. He recalls the route there, remembers how the shop sat beside a tavern on the street corner. He was just there yesterday; the memory is still strong.

As he drives, he wonders if this is the right decision. Should he have tried to find which hospital Meg was taken to? Should he be at her bedside instead of chasing down Ken? It might seem like the noble thing to do, but he knows Meg would want him to catch the wendigo. He can easily imagine Meg telling him not to mope over her, especially if it’s at the expense of a lead. After all, Meg’s injuries are the result of her research; Roger cannot let her suffer ( _or die_ , the Entity gleefully reminds him) for nothing.

He arrives at Pandora’s Books a little while later. The little bell above the door chimes as he enters. Jiang is there, reading a magazine behind the counter. He looks up and smiles at Roger in recognition. “Nice to see you again.”

Roger walks up to the counter and says, “Tell me how to kill a wendigo.”


	11. Chapter 11

Jiang brings Roger into the back room so they can talk. Toby is there too, eating a meatball sub at the counter near the coffee maker. He offers a greeting around a bite of his sub. “Where’s your girlfriend?” Toby asks Roger.

“She’s been attacked by the wendigo,” Roger says. 

Jiang and Toby both exclaim, “Holy shit!”

“As far as I know, she’s okay,” Roger says. He fills them in on Meg’s ordeal and how she identified Ken as her attacker. “He’d have no reason to hurt her unless she was getting too close to the truth. Or he just wanted to kill another person I love because fuck me, I guess.” His rage bubbles up to the surface again, that awful crime scene photo of Amy’s body flashing in his mind’s eye. 

Jiang and Roger sit on the couch. Toby joins them with his meatball sub. “If Ken’s been playing errand boy for the wendigo, it makes sense he could be turning into one himself,” Jiang says. 

“So if I hang around the Seahawks, does that mean I’m going to be awesome at sports?” Toby asks halfheartedly.

“You said Meg was cut up?” Jiang says, focusing on Roger. “Ken could have been transforming, and the cuts were made by claws, but when the neighbor interrupted everything, Ken phased back and ran away.”

“Transforming? Like a werewolf?” Roger says, dazed. Even now, he still can’t believe this shit is for real.

“Yeah, sorta,” Jiang admits, like he knows how bonkers it sounds. “Why not, right? If wendigos want to survive, they have to adapt. And the ones who learn how to shift between human and wendigo form are the ones who survive the longest.”

“Or maybe the guy had a knife,” Toby offers. “And that’s how she got cut.”

The theory sounds good, and it might turn out that Ken simply used a knife from Roger’s apartment and ran away with it. But that doesn’t explain the savagery of the bite marks, or why Ken buried the bodies at Lake Sunderstone, or why Meg’s theory of a wendigo would threaten him so much. If Ken was a run-of-the-mill serial killer, wouldn’t he favor any theories that turn the spotlight off him? The Sunderstone Slasher never had Zodiac levels of self-importance or a desire for notoriety, so Ken getting angry that someone—or some _thing_ —else is getting the credit for his murders wouldn’t make sense. 

“I want to know how to kill him,” Roger says again. “And if you’re willing, I’d like your help.”

Jiang’s eyes go wide. “Us? We’ve never—I mean, we’ve never done anything like this,” he says with a nervous laugh. “We’ve gone to haunted places to look for ghosts before, but it’s not like we came back with proof.”

Toby chews on another bite of his sub. “Well, I don’t _hate_ the idea. According to the lore, wendigos are weak to fire and silver-tipped arrows.”

So Roger hadn’t been crazy to make that werewolf comparison.

“You’ll need a flare gun or a flamethrower,” Jiang adds. “The arrows will only slow ‘em down.”

“How about a blowtorch?” Roger suggests.

“That could work, too.”

“I’d like to find Ken before the cops do,” Roger says. “We have a score to settle.”

Jiang nods like he understands. “But we ought to get the wendigo too. The one controlling all of this. Ken’s just a tool to get things done so it doesn’t have to come out. Taking out Ken is like cutting off a hydra head.”

“We know where the wendigo is,” Roger says, thinking of that soured ground at Lake Sunderstone State Park. “You think Ken might be there too?”

“Only one way to find out,” Jiang says. “Meet us at the park in about an hour and a half. Me and Toby will stock up on supplies.”

“You’ll help?” It’s almost beyond belief that these two are willing to risk their lives to assist a social pariah like Roger. He came here only with the hopes that they would offer advice, not that they might take on the burden of killing the wendigo alongside him.

“I’ve spent my life wondering if these creatures are real,” Jiang says. “This seems like a once-in-a-lifetime chance to find out.”

Toby says, “I took archery in high school. We should be fine.”

* * *

Roger goes home to prepare. There are no police cars parked outside, so Roger doesn’t feel too bad about breaking the yellow tape seal around his apartment door. Seeing the large, dark stain on the carpet near the coffee table makes Roger swoon, and he has to clutch the doorframe to keep his balance. Grief steals through him, threatening to undo him completely.

“Jesus,” he groans, shutting the door behind him so the cat cannot flee this house of horrors. He doesn’t usually get light-headed at the sight of blood, but knowing where that blood came from—and from _whom_ —makes all the difference.

He steps around the stain, taking care not to tread over the smaller bloodstains trailing from the kitchen. He opens a can of food for DB and cleans her litter pan. He knows he should eat something himself, but he doubts he’ll be able to keep it down. Not with Meg’s blood drying on the carpet beside him.

If he had more time to think, Roger might consider the possibility that he could die going up against this… _thing,_ and maybe that would frighten him on another occasion. But fear is the furthest from his mind right now. His brain is a boiling kettle of revenge, and he knows if he lets it go now, he’ll never regain the courage to plunge into that forest and destroy the thing that has turned his life to shambles. 

He considers writing a letter to Meg, as insurance against his possible death by the wendigo. But what would be the point? All his letter could do is make her grieve harder for him, and he doesn’t want to cause her any more pain. Certainly she’s suffered enough from his presence in her life. As much as he wishes he could fix their last conversation with each other, the only way he can do that for sure is to survive.

DB peeks her head out from underneath the bed, her gold eyes wide with alarm.

“Hey, buddy,” Roger says, trying to coax her out. “It’s okay.”

The cat hesitates, as if scanning the apartment for a threat.

“You don’t have to come out now,” Roger says. “But you’ve got food and water, and your box is clean. If something happens to me, my folks will take care of you.”

DB watches him with a curious expression.

“Of course I’d choose now to start giving a shit about what I might leave behind,” Roger says with a scoff. 

Outside, the sky is darkening.

* * *

Roger meets Jiang and Toby at the Lake Sunderstone State Park entrance. From the trunk of his SUV, Jiang takes out a heavy-duty Army pack and a duffel bag. Roger comes empty-handed, but they _did_ tell him they would take care of the supplies. Jiang shoulders the backpack, while Toby carries the duffel bag.

“Think we can get inside without too much hassle?” Roger asks, referring to the unmarked police cars parked in the lot. “I think the cops are still watching this place. I warned them about Ken, so maybe they’re on high alert now.”

“Then they wouldn’t give a shit about us,” Jiang says, and Roger wants to pat him on the head and give him a cookie for being so endearingly naive. “We don’t match Ken’s description.”

Roger’s more worried about the cops wanting to search the group’s bags. He doubts they’d have probable cause for a search, but that doesn’t mean the police couldn’t strongarm their way into a bag check. Roger’s the person of interest here, and he’s carrying nothing. Would Jiang and Toby seem suspicious enough to search?

Fuck it, they’ll just have to try. Aside from the somewhat dismal-looking weather, the three of them simply look like a group of backpackers wanting to spend the afternoon at the park. Nothing suspicious about that.

“I’m kind of surprised they didn’t close the park entirely,” Jiang says as they cross the lot.

“That might tip him off,” Toby says. He looks to Roger, as if seeking confirmation. “Right?”

Roger nods. “They could be trying a sort of sting operation. But I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t take my warning seriously.” If the shoe were on the other foot, would Roger buy the tale that Ken is the Sunderstone Slasher, especially when said tip comes from the mouth of the police’s number one suspect?

As they walk, Roger braces for them to be stopped by _someone_ , but it doesn’t happen. The three of them enter the park unceremoniously, despite carrying huge bags with concealed weapons.

“Jesus,” Roger whispers. “That was too easy.”

“That’s Its power,” Jiang murmurs. “I think It has some kind of influence around here. A pull that makes things go Its way.”

Roger wants to dismiss that as crazy talk, but part of him doesn’t doubt it at all. The wendigo has managed every little detail from the beginning: influencing Mandy Nelson’s friend to be sexually aggressive with her, thus making her look for a ride elsewhere; guiding Roger to pull over for Mandy in the first place; influencing Ken to bring Mandy’s body there, perhaps. Once Ken placed her body in the spoiled earth, could that have set off an even stronger chain of events? 

_Anything is possible now_.

The sky above them is a sour grey. “It’s going to rain,” Roger says. “That’s not gonna make It stronger, is it?”

“I don’t think so,” Jiang says. “But let’s hurry anyway.”

They take the trail quickly, and all the while Roger can’t stop thinking about what effect the rain might have on their fire-based weapons. If the wendigo can guide things its way, maybe the impending rain is part of that influence. Clearly, the creature wants them here, or else the police would have stopped them, and the rain will ensure their weapons are weakened.

_So it can feed._

They reach the end of the trail. There is a small clearing, then a deep thicket of woods, extending far beyond Roger’s line of sight. A smaller trail sits near the coast, tracing a skinny pathway along the edge of the woods. Roger vaguely recalls Meg mentioning something about that when recounting George Hagmaier’s story. Hadn’t George been walking that same small trail when he felt the pull of the wendigo?

“This way,” Roger says, guiding them toward the smaller trail at the edge of the beach. As they become enveloped on all sides by towering trees, Jiang slides the backpack off his shoulders.

“Okay… We should probably get our weapons out,” Jiang says. He sets the pack on the moist soil and pulls open the zipper. “This feels like wendigo territory.”

Roger feels the damp spittle of rain on his skin. Inside the backpack are two blowtorches: a handheld cooking torch, and a larger blowlamp with a half liter tank.

“Aww, no flamethrower?” Toby groans.

Jiang laughs. “Where the fuck would I get a flamethrower?”

“One of those army-navy stores?”

“I don’t think they sell those there.” 

Along with extra cans of butane fuel, there are aerosol spray cans, and containers of pepper spray. Roger imagines trying to ignite one of those with the blowtorch, and pictures himself exploding like he’s stepped on a landmine.

“So this is a suicide mission?” Roger wonders, grabbing the handle of the larger blowlamp. He supposes he’s okay with that if it saves future lives. At least his death will mean something.

“Let’s hope not,” Jiang says. “You’ve seen _Jaws_ , right?”

“Of course.”

“So think of the cans as grenades. Toby will hit them with his arrows when they get close to the wendigo. And for extra points, you and I can light ‘em up.”

Roger supposes that’s safer than trying to use the sprays as accelerants before they’ve coated the wendigo. Still dangerous, but he doubts there’s a safe way to go up against a creature like this. 

“I still feel like this is overkill for one serial killer,” Toby says, though he’s taken the crossbow out of its duffel bag. “I think I can just shoot him in the knee, and we’ll be fine.”

Jiang rolls his eyes. “The wendigo could eat your face, and you would still think it’s a guy in a costume.” He takes the remaining blowtorch for himself and tucks one of the butane refills into the pocket of his cargo pants. Roger takes a pepper spray canister. Jiang zips up the bag and slings it over his shoulder again. 

Toby’s crossbow has its own quiver, with three arrows loaded in. The silver tips glisten in the dewy air. 

They step more carefully now as they move into the deeper woods. The canopy of trees blocks out the sky, but the worn dirt path almost glows, as though beckoning them. Roger hears their footsteps crunch over leaves and fallen branches. The scent of wet earth, leaves, and bark rises into his nose. He is stricken with the sensation that the woods are alive, _conscious_ , even. 

“Do you feel that?” Roger murmurs.

“The terrifying sensation of impending death?” Jiang says.

The soft spittle of rain creates a rush of sound. Below that rush, a wild howl of inhuman laughter sounds from afar. Terror steals into Roger’s heart, but he does not run. His feet move from one step to the next. _The pull,_ he thinks.

“Holy shit,” Jiang whispers. His voice is pinched with fear, and Toby places a calming hand on his shoulder.

“It’s probably a loon,” Toby says. “Or just a crazy guy. No demons. No wendigos.”

Jiang takes a deep breath and reaches into one of his pockets. He takes a small black device out of his pocket; it’s about the size of a Walkman. “Let’s make sure.”

“What is that?” Roger asks.

“An EMF meter. It measures electromagnetic frequencies in the air,” Jiang explains. He flips a switch, and the device powers on. It makes a series of beeps and clicks, none of which sound reassuring.

Even Jiang’s voice gains a shaky quality to it now. “Supernatural creatures like ghosts and demons are—are supposed to give off these frequencies…” The meter beeps like a heart rate monitor attached to an Olympic sprinter. 

Jiang moves slowly, as if trying to find the source of the meter’s intensity. As they move deeper into the woods, the air takes on the sickening smell of burnt, spoiled pork.

“Oh God…” Toby buries his nose in the crook of his arm. 

“That’s what bothers you? Not the EMF meter going insane, not the crazy howling, but a bad smell?” Jiang says, but his usual light banter sounds strained.

“Burnt human flesh smells like pork,” Toby says through his sleeve. “According to… sources.”

“The other, other white meat,” Roger mumbles, managing a crazed laugh of his own. He jumps at every crack of branches, anticipating some towering, bloodthirsty creature behind each one. 

The EMF beeps and clicks frantically. Jiang takes a step and falls into the earth, buried from the waist down. His scream pierces the air, and he drops the EMF and the blowtorch on the ground as his arms scramble for purchase at the edges of the hole. “Oh shit!”

Toby and Roger grab Jiang and lift him out. There’s a large hole in the ground, a hole once covered by leaves and branches until Jiang stepped into it.

“Jesus,” Jiang breathes, and his heart is probably beating as fast as the EMF is beeping. 

“Was that some kind of trap?” Roger asks. He peers into the hole and sees only darkness. 

Toby grabs a flashlight from his duffel bag and shines it into the hole. “It might be a tunnel. I mean, it doesn’t go straight down. Looks like there are curves.”

Not a trap, then, or at least nothing manmade.

Jiang gets to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him, and retrieves his dropped items. He points the EMF down the hole. The beeping accelerates, and Roger fears the device might explode.

“I bet that’s where it lives,” Jiang says. “That’s how it’s stayed hidden all these years.”

“Rock-paper-scissors for who goes down there?” Toby says.

“What about the rain?” Roger wonders. “If it picks up, and we’re down there…”

Jiang makes a noise of agreement. “Our torches will work better away from the rain,” he says, mostly to himself.

“But any explosions would be even more dangerous,” Toby points out.

“I’ll scout ahead,” Roger says. “Got a spare flashlight?”

Jiang and Toby look at him as though he’s volunteered for the electric chair, and, in some way, perhaps he has. “You’re seriously going down there?”

“It makes more sense than all of us rushing headfirst into the unknown. It can’t be _all_ tunnels. It’s got to lead someplace, like a lair,” Roger explains. “And if the wendigo uses this to hide, it’s got to have an easy way to get in and out. At least I’m going in knowing there’s something dangerous down here.”

Jiang takes an extra flashlight from his backpack and hands it to Roger. “You’re fucking crazy, dude. I gotta respect it.”

“What if you can’t get out?” Toby wonders. “That thing’s supposed to be super tall, right? I doubt it added stairs.”

“I’m not coming out until it’s dead,” Roger says, surprised by his own mettle. “By then, it’ll be safe for one of you to climb in and help me if I can’t get out.”

Before he can think about it too much, Roger enters the hole. Since the wendigo is a large creature, the tunnel system is adequately sized for Roger, allowing him to crawl through without too much discomfort. The wet, muddy soil clings to his palms, knees, and the front of his jeans. The smells of clay and burnt pork settle into his nostrils.

He keeps the flashlight pointed ahead. With every passing second, he imagines the wendigo appearing in that spotlight, like a horror movie jumpscare, and stealing the flesh from his bones before he has a chance to scream. 

Roger shakes this thought away and soldiers onward. After a minute or two of crawling, the tunnel opens into what Roger can only describe as a _room_. It reminds him of a basement prison cell, or a lion’s den. The quivering beam of Roger’s flashlight reveals piles of bones and lumpy things that might be flesh. He spots a jawbone missing three teeth. 

“It ought to be safe,” Roger calls up to the other two. “You can come down. It’s roomy.” It might seem incredibly stupid to holler for them now, balls-deep in the wendigo’s lair, but if the creature is pulling strings to get them here, it would _want_ more victims, wouldn’t it? It would let Jiang and Toby climb down here as easily as it let the police ignore them when they entered the park. 

“Okay, we’re coming in,” Jiang calls back. Roger hears them moving against the earth. He supposes the wendigo must hear them too. How many oblivious explorers met their ends down here, the sounds of their descent serving as a dinner bell to the wendigo?

On the far side of the large, dark room is another tunnel mouth. There must be plenty of interconnecting tunnels all through the park, and Roger wonders how many bodies _weren’t_ recovered.

_When I asked if there was a list of anyone who’s disappeared from the park, they said they don’t keep lists like that_ , Jiang said, and now Roger realizes why. There are simply too many of the vanished.

Roger grips the blowtorch tighter and eases out of the tunnel, dropping down a short distance to the floor. Relief spreads through him at the sensation of the ground beneath his feet. He hears Jiang and Toby whispering to each other as they clamber downwards, then they too join him in the dungeon.

“Holy shit,” Jiang whispers. It’s all he can really say lately, but it’s apropos. This is certainly a “holy shit” situation if Roger’s ever seen one. The EMF is silenced, probably returned to Jiang’s pocket. He’s holding the blowtorch, while Toby holds the crossbow. 

“You think it’s in there?” Jiang points to the dark tunnel facing them. “I don’t want to make too much noise with the EMF.”

“I feel some wendigo vibes,” Toby agrees. He clears his throat and shouts, “Hey, fucker!”

Jiang claps a hand over Toby’s mouth. “Shut the fuck up!” he whispers.

Toby pulls Jiang’s hand away. “I’m not afraid of you!” he shouts into the darkness. “I know you’re just some—some shitty serial killer human.”

“Of course you’re not afraid,” Jiang hisses. “You don’t believe.”

“I’m in your lair, you little weirdo,” Toby taunts. “Come and get me. Come get _us_. We’re ready.”

“Don’t rope me into this!” Jiang sort of shoves Toby. “I’m not part of this! I’m not with him!”

“Oh, see, now you’re addressing the wendigo,” Toby says with a grin. “That’s entrapment.”

Jiang glares at him. “Goddamn you. If we make it out of this, I’m going to kill you.”

Toby laughs, like he’s being threatened by a kitten. “Sure you will.” He ruffles Jiang’s hair, and Jiang scowls. 

Part of Roger is annoyed by their loud buffoonery, but the rest of him appreciates the levity. He can’t begrudge them for it; they don’t have the burning anger that Roger has, or a life that’s been ripped apart by this creature. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, I can’t believe I’m down here,” Jiang whispers, shining his flashlight around.

Roger feels a sense of unease and tests his blowtorch with a squeeze of the trigger. 

Jiang jumps at the loud burst of flame. “Fuck! Don’t do that!”

Roger smirks. “Sorry. You want me to go in first?”

“If you’re feeling frisky.”

Roger isn’t feeling particularly frisky, but he _is_ furious at this thing, and anger can carry you pretty far. He raises the blowtorch and the flashlight and moves toward the second tunnel. “Alright. Follow me. Don’t let it touch you.”

Roger heads into the tunnel, ducking a little to fit his tall frame inside. He supposes Toby will have to bend too, but Jiang ought to clear it just fine. Enveloped in the mouth of the tunnel, he hears something, feels the ground vibrate beneath his feet. 

“Something’s coming,” Roger whispers behind him. He shines the flashlight toward the encroaching darkness.

Ken appears in the beam, blocking their path. He’s taller than before, with dirty, long talon-like claws extending from his fingers. His limbs have been pulled like taffy, giving him an unnatural, lanky appearance. His mouth is curled in a snarl, and his teeth are sharp fangs, no longer human. He stares at Roger with a blank intensity. The smell of burnt flesh is stronger now, and the damp air around them seems to crackle with electricity.

“Roger,” Ken—or what used to be Ken—groans. 

Behind Roger, Jiang is whimpering. “Oh God, oh God, what the fuck…”

Roger squeezes the trigger of the blowtorch. A blue flame shoots from the tip. The blast of heat is white-hot, and Roger can feel its warmth on his skin. 

Ken jumps back, away from the flame. “Roger, come on. This isn’t my fault. You can’t—”

“Shut up,” Roger growls. “Toby! Hit him.”

An arrow whistles past Roger and sticks into the soft meat between Ken’s shoulder and chest. The creature howls a despairing screech, the sound alternating between human and animal. Ken stumbles back, one of his monsterlike hands clutching at the wound from which the arrow still juts.

“Roger, please,” Ken half-sobs. “It got hold of me. That’s what it does. It lures you in and by God if it doesn’t _possess_ you. Like a demon. I’m not an evil guy, Roger. I didn’t want to hurt those girls.”

“You _killed_ them,” Roger reminds him. “And what you did to Meg destroyed any sympathy I might have had for you.” The unjust cruelty of things assails him now; Ken should be the one who tried to overdose on pills. Ken should be the one with a shrieking entity in his head telling him he doesn’t deserve to live. But of course it was Roger, the dupe _du jour,_ the innocent man in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Ken stares at him, and his eyes have a duality now, like a cat’s; at a certain angle, they shine a dead yellow. “It touched me. I did what I had to.”

“Where is it?” Roger asks. 

“It’s here… It will come soon. You should run.”

“No, we’re here to kill all of you.” Roger raises the blowtorch again, and Ken flinches. The silver must have done its job to weaken him, but Roger supposes Ken was plenty weak already. That’s why he was hiding down here, licking his wounds.

“No! No! I can tell you why!” Ken pleads, and for a moment, Roger sees the real Ken. The human Ken. 

“Why what?”

“God, don’t let him do a villain monologue,” Toby grumbles. 

“It wasn’t personal,” Ken says to Roger. “I swear. I never thought they would frame you for Mandy. But I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to play Boy Scout, either.” Ken lies on the soil, shuddering as the silver-tipped arrow poisons him. Judging from his emaciated appearance, he’s starving, yet too frail to put up much of a fight. Under his torn shirt, Roger can see Ken’s ribs. “After the cops nailed you… I laid low. A few girls went missing in Issaquah, but I made sure the bodies weren’t found.”

Roger tries not to think of the bones and flesh piles in the other room. 

“I got lazy with Susan.” Ken chuckles. “Lazy Susan. Get it?” Roger doesn’t laugh. “Burying them in the park makes me stronger. _It_ too. But I was nervous the cops might find a pattern, y’know, geographically. Then I remembered you and Amy. You even told me about her at the wedding reception.” Ken shrugs his other shoulder, the one without an arrow sticking out of it. “It wasn’t personal. I liked you, Roger.”

And there it is, the snap inside Roger’s head that indicates some internal fuse burning out forever. He steps closer and raises the blowtorch. “Sure. And this isn’t personal either.” 

Roger points the tip at Ken’s chest and squeezes the flame to life. Ken wails in terror and pain, his clawed hands scrabbling at air. The black char of heat spreads outward from his chest, as though Ken is a piece of tissue disintegrating from the middle. His body burns like a rug, smoke rising from his melting skin. The tunnel is filled with the odor of smoky, burnt flesh.

Roger steps around him and brings the flame to Ken’s face. Now Ken really starts screaming, at least as much as he can until his lips are melted away. The open hole of his mouth tears into a gaping maw, the skin splitting as it chars and blisters. When the awful screaming stops, Roger presumes Ken is dead.

“Did we just… burn a man to death?” Toby asks after a moment. 

“You saw that thing,” Jiang says. “That wasn’t a man anymore.”

From within the tunnel, something roars.

“Oh fuck!” 

“Get ready,” Roger says. “Here comes the feature presentation.” He steps on the ashy, burnt remains of Ken’s body and grabs the arrow. It pulls free with a wet squelch, and Roger tosses the arrow to Toby.

Toby examines the arrowhead. “Yuck.” He slings blood and flesh chunks off of it before returning the arrow to his quiver.

Roger shines the flashlight further into the tunnel. “Let’s finish this.” He’s certain his determination would waver if he went down here on his own. But having Jiang and Toby alongside him—even if Roger feels an odd urge to protect them—seems to bolster Roger’s will, or at least keep the crippling fear at arm’s length. 

They go deeper, until a face appears before them, its skin grey and dead like a zombie. Its yellow eyes seem to glow, its fanged, blackish-brown teeth gnashing in hunger. 

Roger feels his sanity falter, as though perched on a precarious edge. The creature is tall, so large, even hunched over in its tunnel. It blocks the way almost entirely, its long limbs serving as makeshift barricades.

Unlike Ken, this wendigo does not—or cannot—speak. It growls a loud rumble that shakes the tunnel.

From behind Roger, Jiang throws one of the canisters. It lands at one of the creature’s feet. An arrow breezes by Roger’s ear and finds its target in the can. In this small space, the canister explodes with an ear-splitting pop. Aerosol or pepper spray—Roger can’t tell which—splashes across the creature’s feet and legs. 

The wendigo growls, as if this is some minor annoyance. It stares at the three of them and charges.

“Fuck!” Jiang shouts. “Run!” 

Roger does, following the shrinking shapes of Jiang and Toby as they sprint through the tunnel as quickly as they can. Roger’s shoe catches on the arm of Ken’s corpse. His heart freezes, and he trips, stumbling face first into the damp earth. He keeps the blowtorch firmly locked in his grasp, knowing he’s done for if it scatters away. He rolls onto his back, and as the wendigo raises a hand with claws as long as swords, Roger shoots the blowtorch at its feet. 

The burst of flame is sudden and hot. With a loud _thwhump_ sound, the wendigo catches fire. Its shriek is loud enough to rattle Roger’s brain. He crawls away on his hands, watching as the wendigo _is still coming at him_ despite being on fire, and Roger’s feet can’t get purchase in the soil—

An arrow lands in one of the creature’s eyes, eliciting another ear-splitting shriek. Then there are hands helping Roger up, and Roger takes cover behind Jiang in order to dig through the backpack. He finds a canister of pepper spray, and they keep moving backward, staying in the creature’s blind spot. 

The wendigo is slowing, its vision impaired. Dark ichor oozes from its wounded eye. The fire at its feet has been stomped out, though there are a few tongues of flame present on its thigh.

“Can you shoot a small, moving target?” Roger asks Toby, tossing the can up and down in his hand.

Toby grins, seeming to understand Roger’s plan. “Let’s give it a shot.”

Roger throws the can, aiming for the creature’s face. An arrow slices through the air and finds its target. The can explodes. Its contents burst into the wendigo’s eyes and all over its face. The wendigo screams again and makes an attempt to wipe its face, but its long claws don’t help such a movement. It only manages to break off the tail end of the arrow wedged in its eye.

Together, Roger and Jiang light their blowtorches and point the flame at the creature. _Don’t let it touch you_ , Roger thinks as he inches too close, praying for the accelerant to catch the flame before the creature’s claws catch _him_.

And the wendigo, doused in flammable liquids, catches fire much easier than Ken did. The flames roar hot, and Roger has to step back before he too is consumed. Jiang and Roger retreat, watching the wendigo bellow in pain and writhe as the flames spread over its body. As if possessing an intelligence, the creature moves forward.

Like it’s trying to make it to the surface so the rain can put out the fire.

“Don’t let it get away!” Roger shouts. “Shoot it, Toby!”

Toby fires an arrow into the creature’s knee, then another into its remaining eye. Its deafening scream is almost human this time. 

_Could it have_ been _human_?

If Ken’s transformation is anything to go by, perhaps it once was.

_How many missing people have turned into these things,_ Roger wonders with almost hysterical delirium.

Blood sheets down the monster’s face from both eye sockets. It takes a few blind, staggering steps forward. Roger, Jiang, and Toby move out of its way. Still blazing, the wendigo collapses on its side, its long claws still twitching as the flames consume its body.

“Do you—do you think it’s dead?” Jiang says after a moment.

“I hope so.” Toby moves toward the smoldering remains.

“What are you doing?” Jiang says.

“I’m getting my arrows back.” Toby demonstrates this by ripping said arrows out of the creature’s empty sockets. “If that thing’s still alive, we’ll need them. And it would be a shame to leave them here anyway.”

“How the hell are you not fazed by any of this?” Jiang asks.

Toby places the arrows back into the quiver, and he walks down the length of the wendigo’s long body to retrieve the arrow from its knee. “Because it can be killed. And it seems like we did that.”

“Is your mind not blown by the discovery of supernatural creatures?”

Toby shrugs, pulling the remaining arrow out of the creature’s knee. “It’s less troubling than thinking we killed two guys.”

“When you put it that way…” 

The body is turning to ashes, as though being cremated. Roger supposes the same thing happened—or will happen—to Ken. There will be no bodies to present as evidence, no way for Roger to clear his own name. Not that he truly thought there would be—he had no illusions of bringing Ken out of here alive—but the realization weakens him.

Roger slumps to the floor, drawing himself into a tight ball. 

“You okay?” Jiang asks him.

“Yeah. I just… need a minute.”

He takes five minutes, and in that time, the charred corpse of the wendigo disintegrates into ashes. Toby walks down the tunnel to scout ahead for more danger. He returns, shaking his head. “All clear. The other body is gone too.”

Roger sighs. What the fuck is he going to tell Stephanie? She will want to grieve for her husband, even if he was a piece of shit. And she won’t even have a body to bury, or ashes to gather in an urn and place on the fireplace mantel.

What about Ken’s parents? Will any of his loved ones be satisfied with “he just ran off”? The families of his victims will never get justice, their daughters’ murders forever unsolved.

“What a fucking tragedy,” Roger says.

* * *

They have no trouble navigating out of the tunnel. The rainfall is harder now, turning the already damp soil into mud, but it’s an easy climb, albeit a messy one. When Roger climbs out of the hole, he turns his face up to the sky, as if being cleansed of some mortal sin. The warm rain washes over him.

“I can’t believe we did that,” Jiang says, slinging his wet hair from side to side.

“You should have brought a camera,” Roger says. “Take a picture or two of the wendigo, sell it to the tabloids, and retire early.”

Jiang chuckles. “You really think it would be that simple?”

“That thing didn’t seem like it wanted to stop and pose,” Toby adds.

“A picture wouldn’t convince anyone of anything,” Jiang says. “Even video footage has its detractors. Look at the Patterson-Gimlin film.”

“That alleged ‘Bigfoot caught on tape’ film,” Toby clarifies, because Roger isn’t an encyclopedia of cryptid knowledge. Meg would understand the reference, though, and Roger’s heart aches all over again at the thought of her.

“I could have taken a whole camera roll’s worth of pictures of that wendigo,” Jiang says. “And half the people who saw the pictures would say it’s just a guy in a suit. People like to believe what makes them feel safe.”

Roger supposes that’s true, especially where his own alleged guilt is concerned. “But the other half who believe could finance your vacation home.”

Jiang laughs. “I’m really not in this for fame or money.”

“Speak for yourself,” Toby says, giving him a nudge. “I want a vacation home.” He gives this a moment of thought. “I want a _vacation_.”

“People who go public with this stuff… It sort of destroys their life. It becomes everything they are, no matter how they try to escape it.” Jiang’s inquisitive, knowing gaze falls on Roger. “You know a little bit about that, don’t you?”

A bolt of alarm hits Roger. “How long have you recognized me?”

“After the first time you came by,” Toby says. “We talked about it, ‘cause we thought we recognized you from somewhere.”

“And you still helped me?”

“Imagine that,” Jiang says with a smile. 


	12. Chapter 12

After a shower and a change of clothes, Roger finds Meg at the UW Medical Center. Her room is practically overflowing with flower bouquets and gifts from well-wishers. The perks of being a pretty girl on TV. Aside from Meg asleep in the bed, the room is empty. There’s a windbreaker slung over a nearby chair, so Roger presumes she has a visitor roaming the halls.

Meg has a thick bandage wrapped around one side of her head. Some of her long hair has been cut on that side, giving her a lopsided look. Underneath the shoulder of her gown, another bandage covers the length of her upper arm. Her bandaged calf — _looks like someone chewed on her leg_ , Roger remembers — is laid carefully over the blankets. She’s fast asleep, riding the soothing wave of pain medication, if the IV sticking out of her arm is any indication. 

“I got him,” Roger murmurs to her. “And the wendigo too. You were right.”

She doesn’t wake up, but he didn’t expect her to. It’s better this way. Roger wouldn’t know what to say in an actual conversation, not after everything that’s happened. 

Ugly reddish-yellow stains ooze through her bandages. Roger wishes he could kill Ken all over again for putting Meg through this.

Sensing a presence, Roger turns. An older man stands in the entrance to Meg’s room, glaring at Roger as though he’s the cause of Meg’s misery. _The jury’s out on that one_ , Roger thinks.

The man seems to be in his forties, with glasses and brown hair the color of Meg’s own. His goatee, however, is beginning to show signs of grey.

“You must be her father,” Roger says, hoping to start them off on the right foot.

But Mr. Starke isn’t having any of it. He stomps closer to Roger and jabs a finger into his chest. “You need to leave. You’ve got some balls showing your face here after what you did to her.”

Roger puts his hands up in surrender. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea. I would never hurt Meg.” He should stop there, but, stupidly, he keeps going. “There was an eyewitness. He saw the man who did this to her; the guy didn’t look anything like me—”

“Yeah, sure. You’ve played the ‘wasn’t me’ card one time too many, pal. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

_People like to believe what makes them feel safe. You nailed it, Jiang, ol’ buddy._

“I don’t want my daughter getting mixed up with you,” Mr. Starke continues.

“All due respect, she’s an adult who can make her own decisions.” Roger knows this is the wrong thing to say as soon as it leaves his mouth.

Mr. Starke straightens up, as if trying to impose his height on Roger, despite being at least five inches shorter than the other man. “You need to leave _now_.”

Roger glances at Meg before deciding it’s probably for the best that he leaves. “Alright. I’m sorry.” He may have to send Stephanie in for reconnaissance; he doubts Mr. Starke knows they’re related, if he’s aware of Stephanie at all as a presence in Meg’s life.

Roger goes home. When he tries to sleep, his dreams are plagued by glowing yellow eyes and long fangs.

* * *

Meg comes to in the dark. It’s a slow awakening, as if swimming through molasses. The right side of her face is numb, but underneath the numbness lies a dull, terrible pain. Through the shower-curtain haze of her vision, she sees frightening machinery on her left, all sorts of tubes and wires hooked up to her extremities. 

Her eyes roam the dark hospital room and settle on the familiar shapes of her parents asleep in the chairs on both sides of the bed. Seeing them in the same room again shocks her, and fresh tears spring from her eyes. She grimaces, about to cry, but the hot rip of pain in the right side of her mouth makes her whimper. 

Her cry awakens her father. Dad raises his head, sees that Meg’s awake, and almost instantly he’s at her side. “Oh, pumpkin,” he murmurs, kissing her forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“It hurts,” Meg tries to say, but her throat is impossibly dry and sore. “Water,” she rasps, barely managing the word. She points to a plastic cup on her bed’s tray table. 

“Water?” Dad asks, and Meg nods. He hands her the cup, and Meg puts the rim to her lips. 

She makes a concentrated effort not to move her lips or facial muscles, tipping the cup and letting the lukewarm water pour into her open mouth. She closes her eyes in bliss as the water moistens and soothes her throat.

Mom’s half-asleep voice comes from the other side of the bed. “Meg? Honey, are you okay?”

“Does she _look_ okay?” Dad snaps.

“Goddamn it, Jerry, don’t do this,” Mom says, and Meg wishes they hadn’t bothered coming if they’re just going to snipe at each other. 

“Stop it,” Meg says. Her throat still hurts, but the dryness is gone. “I’m okay.” She’s not, but saying so might stop her parents from devolving into an argument. “What time is it?”

Dad checks his watch. “Half past two in the morning.”

“Sweetie, do you remember what happened?” Mom asks. She brushes Meg’s hair off the unbandaged side of her face. 

Meg shuts her eyes again. Behind her closed lids, she sees herself kicking Ken in the nose. A chunk of her leg ripping free. Blood glistening on Ken’s teeth. Claws tearing at her arm and her face. 

_You fucking bitch. Roger didn’t bother saving his own skin. Why couldn’t you leave it alone?_

Meg feels a giant hand pressing on her chest. The beep of the heart monitor accelerates. “He attacked me,” she murmurs, lost in the memory. Tears leak from her eyes and cascade down her cheeks. Meg struggles to keep her facial muscles still, that hot rip of pain remaining fresh.

“Who?” Mom asks.

“The Sunderstone killer,” Meg says. Her eyelids feel heavy, and explaining it makes her even more tired.

“And he had the nerve to show up here,” Dad growls.

Meg’s lungs turn to stone, and she imagines Ken appearing in a dark corner of this room to finish what he started. Then she remembers that everyone assumes _Roger_ is the killer.

“Roger? No, no, he didn’t do it. It was someone else,” Meg insists.

“Then how do you know it was the killer?” Dad asks.

“He told me he was.” Meg sighs, the tension in her body slackening as exhaustion takes hold. Or maybe it’s the morphine flowing through her IV. “I was investigating… It’s Ken, Stephanie’s husband… He said he had to kill me, ‘cause I was getting too close.”

Mom runs her hand across Meg’s forehead. “Oh, honey, you’re still a little loopy from the anesthesia, huh?”

“No,” Meg protests, wanting to explain more, but she feels herself nodding off before the words make it out of her mouth.

* * *

Two police detectives stop by in the morning to take Meg’s statement. She tells them what she can remember, leaving out any mentions of supernatural creatures. 

While Meg’s parents are downstairs in the cafeteria, Stephanie pushes her way into the room. “Hey, how are you feeling?” She’s carrying a basket of white and yellow flowers, which she sets on the windowsill to join the overflow of bouquets and flower arrangements.

“Like crap,” Meg says, bunching the overly-starched hospital sheets in her hands. 

“You’re right. Dumb question. Are all these from the station?” Stephanie asks, referring to the assortment of bouquets.

Meg nods. “And some from my grandparents, out-of-state aunts and uncles.” When Meg asked earlier about the flowers, Mom bragged that she had contacted the relatives on her side of the family, as if expecting some sort of scout badge for her efforts.

Stephanie looks at her as though Meg is a bird with a broken wing. “How bad is it?” she asks softly, touching the side of her own face. “The damage?”

“I’m trying not to think about it.” Meg can deal with the scars on her arm and leg, but scarring on her face will hamstring her odds at any public-facing job she might apply for. The station is probably reconsidering her employment right now.

“Is Roger okay?” Meg asks, desperate for a subject change. “He didn’t — he’s not taking the blame for this, is he?”

“No, he’s not,” Stephanie says with disdain. “I was going to come anyway, but he asked me to check on you. He says he tried to visit last night, but your dad wouldn’t let him stay.”

That sounds like Dad. Meg will have to have a conversation with him about that.

There’s a moment of silence between them, and Ken lives inside of it. Meg considers asking Stephanie about Ken, or asking if the police have questioned her yet over his whereabouts. But she can’t be the one who breaks that news to Stephanie.

Turns out, she doesn’t have to.

“I guess the cops have talked to you, right?” Stephanie asks, and by her tone Meg can tell she’s dancing around the subject. “About the attacker?”

“They did. About a half hour ago.”

Two spots of rouge flame on Stephanie’s cheeks. “Oh. What did — what did you tell them?”

“It wasn’t Roger, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.” Meg looks at her, trying to get a handle on Stephanie’s evasiveness. “Have they talked to you?”

“Why would they?”

“If the killer is targeting women associated with Roger, you might be next.”

Briefly, a look of terror crosses Stephanie’s face. She masks it with calculation, like she’s trying to solve a complicated math problem.

Or, perhaps, like she’s wondering what her odds are of becoming Ken’s next victim.

Fuck it. Time to rip off the bandaid. “He looked a lot like Ken,” Meg starts. “The attacker. An eyewitness said he ran away and got into a white Capri. Kind of odd, don’t you think?”

The red spots on Stephanie’s cheeks spread out. “That doesn’t mean anything. There could be thousands of guys who look like Ken and drive the same type of car.”

“Already arguing like a lawyer,” Meg says wryly. “You should have gone to law school too.”

Stephanie has no answer for that, just a scowl of contempt and embarrassment.

“It was him, Steph,” Meg says, softening her tone. “I wish like hell it wasn’t, but it was Ken. He called the apartment, then he came over. Roger was out. Ken wanted to talk about the Sunderstone killer. He was scared that I might have been figuring it out—”

“Stop,” Stephanie says, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“You didn’t know. You’re a victim, too.” Meg sighs, settling back against the bed. The bandaged side of her face has started to ache from overuse. “I’m not blaming you.”

“But you’re accusing my husband just as easily as everyone accused Roger,” Stephanie says.

“Then where is he? At least Roger didn’t run away when Mandy Nelson turned up dead.”

“And look what happened to Roger when he offered himself up to the cops on a silver platter. I’d run too.”

Meg says, “But if Ken didn’t do it, how would he know to run? The cops would have found him by now if he waited to see my attack on the news.”

“Maybe he has a police scanner,” Stephanie says, grasping at straws. “He heard there was an altercation at Roger’s apartment, a Capri leaving the scene that fits his car’s description, and he decides to run.”

Meg could buy that, sure, but there are holes in that theory, and she’s too tired to argue them. “I guess all we can do is wait until he turns up.”

Stephanie sniffles and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m so sorry…”

“You didn’t know,” Meg reminds her, gently. “None of us did.” _Until you started poking around,_ she imagines Stephanie saying. _Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?_

But Meg knows she couldn’t. When she was about six years old, she crawled underneath the house with a flashlight after hearing animal noises coming from the crawlspace. She ended up getting stuck, and Dad had to come down there and pull her out. From that point on, Dad always joked that Meg’s innate curiosity would end up getting her in trouble. It led her to become interested in Bigfoot, in cryptids, in the creatures that lurk in the dark. It led her to strike up a conversation with Roger and become entangled in his life. And that same curiosity would not allow her to ignore the Sunderstone killer, not when his crimes had turned Roger’s life into a shell of what it could be.

“If he’s smart, he’ll stay hidden,” Meg says. “Can you live with that?”

“I suppose I’ll have to.”

* * *

In the late afternoon, Meg has more visitors. This time, it’s Jiang and Toby. Jiang brings her a gift basket of luxurious bath and spa items. “I thought you could use this more than flowers,” he explains, setting it near the room’s small sink. “When you go home, I mean.”

“It’s lovely. Thank you.”

Dad seems to have taken it upon himself to vet every visitor that comes through the door. Or at least the male ones. “That’s very kind of you,” he says. “How do you know my daughter?”

Jiang and Toby introduce themselves. “Meg shops at our bookstore,” Jiang explains. “We heard about what happened through a mutual friend.”

A mutual friend like Roger, perhaps? Meg smiles, albeit tightly, all too aware of the pain when her facial muscles stretch too far. But Meg suspects they’re here for another reason, perhaps something to do with the investigation. Her stitches, along with the desire to force her parents out of the room, begin to itch. 

“Well, it’s sweet of you to have stopped by and brought such a thoughtful gift,” Mom says to Jiang and Toby. “Any more flowers and this room will look like a greenhouse.”

Meg clears her throat so she can speak clearly. “Mom? Dad? Would you mind giving us a few moments?”

Her parents exchange a glance, aware that she wants them out of the room. “Sure, honey,” her mother says, standing up and straightening her knee-length skirt. “I could use some fresh air, couldn’t you, Jerry?”

Dad grunts a noise of acquiescence and follows Mom out the door. When they’re gone, Meg says, “You have news, don’t you? That’s why you’re here.”

Toby raises his eyebrows at Jiang. “She’s good.”

They sit in the seats Meg’s parents just abandoned. “Roger hasn’t been by?” Jiang asks.

Meg shakes her head. “My dad wouldn’t let him in, but he must have come while I was asleep.”

Jiang picks up a paper straw wrapper from Meg’s tray table and rolls it into a ball between his fingers. He lowers his voice when he speaks. “So, we were right. It _was_ a wendigo. Well, two of them, actually, like we thought. An alpha controlling things, and—” He pauses. “Another. The one killing those girls.”

“You can tell me. It was Ken, wasn’t it?”

Jiang nods and tells her how he, Toby, and Roger crawled beneath Lake Sunderstone State Park and dispatched both wendigos in the tunnels. It would sound absolutely insane to anyone else, and even Meg wouldn’t believe it if she didn’t trust that Jiang was telling God’s honest truth. 

“So, no bodies, then,” Meg says grimly when he’s finished. 

“Our hopes of a taxidermied wendigo in a traveling sideshow are dashed,” Toby says, half-joking.

No bodies means Stephanie will never know what became of her husband. She’ll likely always believe he’s out there somewhere, alive until proven dead. Without Ken, there will be no trial, no closure for the victims’ families, no proof of Roger’s innocence.

“I wish it had gone another way,” Jiang says to her. “Not just for scientific proof that wendigos exist, but for closure.”

“Closure was made up by Hollywood to sell movie tickets,” Toby says, perhaps trying to lighten the mood. “When the murders stop — and they will, because the killer is dead — people will make their own peace with it. Proof of death doesn’t mean anything. Look at all the people who think Elvis is still alive.”

Will Stephanie become one of those eternal believers, forever grasping at the idea that Ken is out there somewhere?

“Jiang, do you think it’s possible for a human to give birth to a wendigo? Or a half-wendigo?” Meg asks.

“Anything is possible,” Jiang says. “But the lore doesn’t mention any cases like that. I’d be a fool to disregard it entirely, though.” He holds her gaze. “Why? Do you have someone in mind?”

Meg swallows a lump in her throat. “Stephanie. Ken’s wife. She might be pregnant.” She can’t stop imagining the wendigo baby bursting out of Stephanie’s stomach like in that scene from _Alien_.

“It all depends on whether the wendigo transformation affects the genes, don’t you think?” says Toby, the eternal voice of reason. “And since they have to touch you, that seems more like a communicable disease than anything genetic.”

Meg wonders if some of Stephanie’s morning sickness might be attributed to her proximity to Ken. Could she have turned into a wendigo with enough exposure to one?

A horrifying possibility occurs to Meg, and her head snaps up. “Oh God…. He scratched me. He bit me.” The room seems to close in around her, and a cry escapes her throat. The heart monitor tracking her pulse speeds up.

“We don’t know for sure,” Jiang says, trying to calm her with reason. “The lore says people become wendigos through greed and cannibalism. And Ken said it _possesses_ you and draws you in. So maybe — unless you go looking for it, it can’t affect you.”

“Think about it. Why did Ken kill those girls instead of turning them into his own personal wendigo army?” Toby adds. “Maybe he _couldn’t_. Maybe they had”—he makes a face at the phrasing—“pure hearts or something cheesy like that, and they couldn’t be turned.”

“But we don’t know for sure,” Meg says, her voice trembling. 

“If Ken’s wife didn’t turn into one, you’re probably gonna be fine,” Toby stresses. “He’s got to have spent more time around her than you, even accounting for your injuries. If she’s pregnant with his child, and she still hasn’t exhibited symptoms, maybe you’re in the clear.”

Toby’s rational calm slows Meg’s frantic heartbeat, though not by much. Her gaze meets Jiang’s, then Toby’s. “You have to promise me,” she says, “if I become one of those things… You have to promise you’ll stop me.”

Jiang’s face loses a bit of color. “We didn’t — I mean, Roger did most of the dirty work—”

“I can’t ask him.” Meg shakes her head. “I won’t put him through that.” She looks at them. “I know it would be hard for you too, but it would destroy Roger.”

“If it comes to that,” Jiang promises, “we’ll do it.”

* * *

Roger doesn’t get to see Meg until two days later. She’s been happy to fall under the haze of steady pain medication, and in the moments when she’s awake, she’d rather not have the ‘please let the alleged murderer visit me’ conversation with her parents.

But it’s mostly shame preventing her from reaching out to Roger. She doesn’t want him seeing her like this. Any reaction he might have to her condition would be enough to undo her. If he steps in this room, sees the bandages (or, perhaps, what lies beneath them) and can’t bear to look, that would be painful enough. But if he claims it doesn’t matter, that he could love her no matter what her face looks like? Somehow, that would be worse. Because _she_ can’t afford herself the same kindness, and she knows she would push him away.

Roger shows up in the early evening, after Meg’s parents have gone home for the night. The sight of Roger in the doorway ignites a flash of terror in Meg’s heart, and a sob croaks out of her throat before she can stop it. 

Roger sits at her bedside and strokes what’s left of her hair. “Oh, honey. Does it hurt?”

Meg shakes her head, trying to turn the ruined side of her face away from him. “How did you — how did you know to show up now?”

“I called the nurse’s desk before I came.” Roger gives her a small smile. “I didn’t want a repeat of that run-in with your dad.”

“Sorry. I haven’t had the chance to talk to him about you. I don’t think it would make much of a difference anyway.”

“I can’t really blame him,” Roger says with a shrug. He looks around the room, perhaps searching for evidence that Meg’s parents have stepped out. “How much time do we have?”

“As much as you want. I sent them home, at least for tonight. I said I needed some time alone.” Meg sighs, blinking as a tear leaks out of her eye and over the bridge of her nose. The pain medication makes it difficult for Meg to keep a handle on her emotions. She’s snapped at her parents a few too many times, and with their own tendencies to snipe at each other, she wanted to prevent a blow-up.

And maybe she _did_ want some time to herself, time she doesn’t have to spend putting on a brave face for visitors. 

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Roger says.

“No, you’re alright.” She should probably say she’s glad to see him, because on some level she is, but she can’t bring herself to say it.

“That’s good. I wanted to tell you… I got him, Meg. I got Ken. Jiang, Toby, and I took care of the whole wendigo situation.” Roger tells her about his jaunt into the tunnels underneath Lake Sunderstone State Park. Meg’s already heard it from Jiang and Toby, but she doesn’t stop him from telling it. His earnest blue eyes are mesmerizing, and she might drown in them.

“I wish it could have turned out differently,” Roger says when he’s finished. “The way things shook out… Stephanie will never know what happened to Ken.”

“And there’s no one to convict for the crimes you’re accused of,” Meg says, hating herself for reminding him.

Roger lowers his head. “Right. But people tend to believe what they want. I don’t know how much putting Ken on trial would have changed things.”

Meg almost tells him about Stephanie’s potential pregnancy, but stops herself. Stephanie asked her to keep that secret, and Meg doesn’t intend to break confidences, even if she is somewhat irked with Stephanie for being unreasonable over the whole Ken situation. But would Meg herself act any different in Stephanie’s place? Impossible to know for sure.

Now Meg doesn’t know what to say. Conversation used to come so easily with Roger, but now Meg has too many secrets to keep. She can’t tell him about the possibility of her turning into a wendigo. He’s likely already considered it, but bringing it up would just wound him deeper.

Roger takes her hand and squeezes it. “How are you doing?”

“They say I’m doing better. No infections. The incisions are healing.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

This interest in her psychological wellbeing makes Meg’s eyes sting with tears. She turns her head away, using the bandaged side of her face as a shield against his concern. “Then you know how I’m feeling.”

What she doesn’t tell him is how deeply she now understands the motivations behind his suicide attempts. To bypass all the pain, the long recovery process, the well-meaning platitudes, the stares and averted eyes from strangers and friends alike, the reconstructive surgeries, the burden she will undoubtedly become to her loved ones… 

Roger squeezes her hand again. “Maybe I do. But a wise person once said to me: ‘There are people in your life who care about you. People love you, and we wouldn’t be better off if you were dead.’”

Meg knows she could never bring herself to do it, of course. It would destroy her parents and become one more fucking thing for them to fight about. And Roger would never forgive himself for bringing Meg into his orbit and (in his mind, at least) causing all of this.

“I know you’re afraid that I’ll leave,” Roger says. “That I’ll see the bandages come off and run for the hills. But I won’t.”

“He cut my mouth open,” Meg says, blinking back the hot tears pushing at her eyes. “I look like the Joker.”

“It probably looks bad now, because of the swelling and bruising, but that will fade, and it will just be a scar.” Roger smiles. “A scar won’t scare me away. I’ve got plenty of my own.”

Something hot and tight builds in her chest, and she has to swallow it down. “Don’t make me cry. It hurts too much.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to. I just— You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m not letting that go over a few scars.”

That hot and tight feeling spreads to the stitched side of her mouth, which struggles against a grimace she imagines might break the stitches. “You _feel sorry_ for me. You think this is your fault, so you feel obligated to stay.”

“You don’t know what I’m feeling,” Roger says, sounding hurt.

Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe she’s projecting her own feelings onto him, feelings about her father’s descent into drinking after the divorce. Hadn’t she come back to Seattle to play the role of caretaker and assuage her own guilt over the split? 

“You’re right,” Meg says. “I’m sorry.” It’s easier to apologize than to argue the point. “I just can’t understand how you could still want me like this.”

“You’re still _you._ I’ll love you no matter what you look like.”

_Love_. The word makes her flinch at its truth. If he’d said it before all this, perhaps it wouldn’t mean as much, wouldn’t ring true. 

Meg squeezes her eyes shut at the threat of more tears. “You shouldn’t.”

“Is this really a fight you want to win?” Roger asks, not unkindly. 

Meg knows it isn’t. Say she did manage to push him away. All it would do is make her even more alone, and for what? Her pride? Her foolish belief that Roger should abandon her because she can’t stand what she sees in the mirror?

“You’re in good company,” Roger says, squeezing her hand again. “I’m used to drawing the wrong kind of stares in public.”

Meg laughs until she starts crying again. Roger holds her through it all.


	13. Chapter 13

_September 1984_

Stephanie shows up while Roger is out. Meg’s ready for her, dressed in long sleeves and pants to hide most of her scarring. The damage on her face is still visible even under a meticulous concealer job. Parting her hair on the left side seems to hide most of the scars, at least from afar. Today marks Meg’s first real outing since leaving the hospital. 

She locks up the apartment and slides into the passenger seat of Stephanie’s Mazda. “You don’t have to go in with me if you don’t want to,” Stephanie reminds her, pulling out of the parking space. “I just need someone to make sure I go through with this.”

Meg knows it could not be Roger or either of Stephanie’s parents in her place. This is a secret between the two of them. “You’ll be okay.”

“That’s the worst part,” Stephanie admits with a sigh. “I’ll be sad for a while and mourn what could have been, but I’ll move on.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to be. Grief, I mean.”

“Maybe. Maybe it should be different in this case. I don’t know.” Stephanie glances at Meg while they’re stopped at a light. “You haven’t told Roger?”

Meg shakes her head. “Your secret is safe with me. And it’s good to do it while he’s at work.”

After Roger brought Meg home, he called Carol Gaines and begged her to pull some strings and get him his job back at the emergency dispatch service. It’s awful work, Meg thinks, hearing people on the worst day of their lives, but at least Roger doesn’t have to face the public to do it. He's assured her he won’t stay on too long, just until his spring transfer to FSU goes through.

After receiving his recommendation letter from Professor Miller, Roger sent in his application. The admissions office wrote back that they’d love to have him aboard, but he would have to wait until the spring semester to officially enroll at Florida State University. Things have probably worked out for the best on that score; Meg gets more time to heal and recover, while Roger has more time to save up for the move.

“Do you think Ken will come back?” Meg asks, knowing he won’t, but wanting to hear what Stephanie’s response will be.

Stephanie’s mouth twitches. “He’s got a lot to answer for if he does. The selfish part of me thinks he ought to stay hidden. No trial or media coverage to tear open old wounds. I’d rather be known as the woman whose husband disappeared than as the wife of a killer.”

After seeing what happened to Roger, it’s no wonder Stephanie would choose pity over scorn. 

“But of course I have to be selfless and hope he comes back so he can face the consequences for what he’s done,” Stephanie continues. Meg wonders if Stephanie truly believes Ken was the Sunderstone Slasher, or if she only holds him accountable for Meg’s attack. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Or maybe in time the truth will sink in, if it hasn’t already. 

But Ken Roseland will always remain missing. There are no traces left of him to be found. Roger, Jiang, and Toby made sure of that.

“Will you be okay when we’re gone?” Meg asks after a moment. After receiving his acceptance letter, Roger asked Meg if she wanted to come with him. She said yes.

“Sure. My parents are just a phone call away,” Stephanie says. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

Meg has a handful of friends in Tallahassee, but she wonders how they might react to her newfound scars. Her stomach turns at the thought of running into Liz while looking like this; Liz would likely see Meg’s scars as some kind of karmic victory, as if Liz didn’t screw her over enough already.

“I’ll be fine,” Meg says. “It’ll be nice to be back. Maybe the sunshine will cheer me up.”

“If not, there’s always therapy,” Stephanie says, probably trying to be helpful.

Meg supposes that’s true, but how could she be honest with a therapist about the things she’s seen? Talking about her attack would only scratch the surface; it’s what Ken _was_ that keeps her up at night, and the possibility that she might become the same thing one day. There have been no signs of a wendigo transformation yet—and putting distance between herself and the pull of Lake Sunderstone State Park might do wonders—but, still, Meg worries.

So she’s somewhat grateful when Stephanie pulls into the clinic parking lot. One less potential wendigo in the world. Is that uncharitable? Perhaps. But Stephanie has suffered enough; the last thing she needs is a supernatural cannibal baby to take care of on her own. 

Meg lays her hand on Stephanie’s arm. “You need me to go in with you?”

Stephanie shakes her head. “I can go on my own. Moral support, remember?”

Meg suspects Stephanie doesn’t want to subject her to the scrutiny of curious gazes in the clinic waiting room, and she didn’t know she could love Stephanie more until now. 

“Good luck,” Meg says, unsure of what else to say in a situation like this.

Stephanie says, “Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” and enters the clinic.

* * *

_January 1985_

Sitting in the office of her therapist, Meg feels oddly out of place. This is her third appointment since settling in to life in Tallahassee, and while Dr. Polly Boone is a fine psychiatrist, Meg knows she can never tell the woman the whole truth. 

As far as Dr. Boone knows, Meg earned her scars during an attack by a serial killer. There are no mentions of the wendigo, lest Dr. Boone diagnose Meg with some type of delusion. 

This omission is the worst of all, as it’s the part that keeps Meg awake most nights. The gnawing, lurking fear that she may become one of those creatures, that the influence of the wendigo is incapable of being averted. 

So what Meg ends up sharing during her visits are surface-level fears and anxieties. This frustration over the inability to be truthful leaves her even more upset than when she arrived. 

But this doesn’t stop her from trying, and sometimes her problems are a little more down to earth. 

“I’m going out with my boyfriend tonight,” Meg starts, hesitant. “Today’s my birthday, and he wants to take me to dinner.”

“How do you feel about that?” Dr. Boone asks. Typical therapist response.

“I like that he wants to do something nice for me, but I feel like... if I say I want to stay in, he’ll be disappointed and give me a well-meaning talk about how I shouldn’t hide away from the world. But if I _do_ go, I’ll ruin his good time by trying to have a good time. Does that make sense?” 

Dr. Boone nods. Her dull brown hair is tied back in a bun, and her tortoiseshell glasses make her look like a middle-age librarian. “I can see how that makes sense to you.” Psychiatrist speak for ‘that’s nonsense, but go on.’ “What’s the worst that might happen if you go?”

“People will stare at me.” Meg feels the scar on her cheek heat up. She almost looks away, fearing Dr. Boone is looking at it. 

“But you’re used to being stared at, aren’t you?”

Meg shrugs. “For more flattering reasons, sure. But they won’t be staring at me because they recognize me or because they think I’m pretty.”

“You don’t think someone could think you’re pretty with that scar?”

Meg doesn’t answer, shamed by her own shallowness. 

“Your boyfriend seems to think you’re pretty.”

“He feels obligated to stay with me,” Meg says with a sigh. “The man who attacked me was his brother-in-law.”

“And your boyfriend was used to being stared at for unflattering reasons,” Dr. Boone adds. “To some degree, he must know how you feel.”

“But he got to move to another state and start over. No one stares at him like that here.”

Dr. Boone scribbles something onto her notepad. “You told me you plan on having a plastic surgeon repair your facial scar. So why would people staring bother you if you know you’re going to change how you look?”

Since moving to Tallahassee, Meg has taken up work at a hotel call center, as a way of avoiding interaction with the public. She intends to save up for a second operation with a plastic surgeon to correct most of the damage to her face. 

Meg can’t really form an answer that doesn’t sound stupid. In the spirit of honesty, she says, “It just does... But I guess it’s easier to go out and let Roger feel good than to stand my ground on my right to be miserable. But if I don’t try, then I can’t let him down...”

“Do you think choosing not to go out wouldn’t disappoint him?” 

“I know it would, but it feels worse to try and still fail.”

“I don’t think you would be with him if he wasn’t patient and understanding,” Dr. Boone says. “Do you think he would see you as a failure if you went out and tried to have a good time but didn’t?”

“No, but I know he’d be disappointed.”

“You’re not responsible for other people’s emotions,” Dr. Boone says. “Have you considered your assumptions about your boyfriend might be informed by your experiences with other men?”

Meg told Dr. Boone about losing her virginity in high school; the guy wasn’t even her boyfriend, really, just a first date that ended up in the back seat of his car, because the thrill of being desired overrode Meg’s common sense.

“It’s possible,” Meg says, grudgingly.

“Do you really think he would have asked you to move to Florida with him out of obligation?” Dr. Boone asks. “From his perspective, moving would have been a surefire way to get rid of you, if he was that kind of man.”

It all sounds reasonable, but the undercurrent of the wendigo experience lies beneath the surface. Could Roger really leave her behind after what they went through together?

“I just don’t want to disappoint him,” Meg says with a sigh, relinquishing this line of conversation.

“Focus on not disappointing _yourself_ first,” Dr. Boone says. “The rest will follow.”

* * *

On the eve of Meg’s twenty-fifth birthday, Roger takes her to a quaint tiki bar for dinner. Multi-colored paper lanterns and string lights hang from the walls and ceiling to illuminate the bar. Roger hates dark restaurants where you can barely see what’s on your plate, but he understands Meg will appreciate the low lighting. Her scars are still healing, and this is a big step for her.

The bar, located in the middle of the tiny wood-paneled shack, is stocked with enough wines and liquors to intimidate even a seasoned drinker. After some coaxing from Roger —”It’s your birthday; you think I haven’t been saving up for this?”— Meg orders a rum cocktail. Their drinks come in cute, colorful tiki glasses, adorned with small paper umbrellas. 

Meg’s wearing faded jeans and a long-sleeved blouse, the latter presumably to hide the scars on her arm. She parts her hair on the left side now to conceal her ragged cheek. “I hope you’re not disappointed that we moved here,” she says, as though it might be her fault if Tallahassee isn’t all she made it out to be.

“Are you kidding? I love it! Can you imagine if the dice rolled another way and we ended up in Utah?” Roger laughs. “I hope you like Mormonism and sex for procreation.”

Meg grins; even with the scar, the effect is stunning. “Or Minnesota, where you have to shovel six feet of snow just to get out of your driveway.”

“Jokes aside, anywhere I don’t have to look over my shoulder is fine with me,” Roger says. “It feels too good to be true sometimes, and I suppose it’ll catch up with me eventually.”

“How do you mean?”

“Some TV journalism show will pick it up, like _60 Minutes_ or _20/20._ It’s as tantalizing as the Zodiac murders, especially with the haunted ground angle. I might have to change my name, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, I’m just happy I can breathe again.”

Meg nods, offering a measured smile. “Me too.” 

For the first few months after her injuries, Meg had trouble sleeping. Roger assumed reliving the attack in her dreams was the cause of her broken rest. Some nights, even he awoke thrashing out of nightmares, his sleep transporting him back to those claustrophobia-inducing tunnels.

On most nights, Meg does little more than pick at her food, but tonight she eats a plate of shrimp tacos and a bowl of berries and ice cream, along with drinking two cocktails. Roger’s happy to see her eat like her old self again; she’s always been lean, but her clothes are beginning to hang off her in ways they didn’t used to before.

“Stephanie called today,” Roger says in the middle of their meal. “She says happy birthday, and your card’s in the mail.”

“I’ll have to thank her tomorrow.” Since moving in to their apartment, Meg’s been busy decorating and painting a pastel orange accent wall in their bedroom. Roger enjoys the bright, colorful touches, and he likes the view of palm trees and the pool from their bedroom window. “How’s she doing?”

“Just fine. The shop’s making more money than ever.” Roger thinks Stephanie’s putting in extra hours as a way of keeping herself busy, so she doesn’t have to think about Ken and the mess he made. “The holiday season must have helped.” If he knows his parents, they most likely ordered an enormous batch of cookies from the shop to give out to friends and family. 

“That’s good to hear,” Meg says. “I’ve been worried about her.”

If Roger were a richer man, he would have a diamond ring in his pocket tonight, and the intention of proposing to Meg. But after witnessing the disaster that Stephanie and Ken’s marriage turned out to be, Roger is a little more cautious than he would have been before. He imagines Meg might want an elaborate, fancy wedding (much like Stephanie’s), but in her current headspace, she would hate the idea of people looking at her. So Roger will give it time. 

After dinner (and a slice of chocolate mousse cake), they make the short walk back home. The night air is crisp and balmy, and Roger holds Meg’s hand as they walk.

“It’s not too late to renegotiate your ‘no gifts’ policy,” Roger says.

The scarred corner of Meg’s mouth twitches into a half-smile. “And if I do?”

“Ask and you shall receive.”

Meg moves closer, tangling her arm with his own. “I’ve got you. That’s more than enough for me.”

“You know that goes both ways, right?” Roger feels her stiffen slightly against him. “No matter what, I’m here for you.”

“Even if I turned into one of those _things_?” Meg says; her tone is icy, as if she’s trying to wound him or test his resolve.

“If it hasn’t happened by now, I don’t think it will. But yes, even then. I’m with you.”

Meg looks at him with bewilderment, as though some unspoken desire within her has been satisfied.

“Maybe the Florida air is getting to me,” Roger says, “but I feel so much better now that I’ve stopped stressing about everything. And, yeah, getting out of Seattle helped a lot. But you helped me realize worrying about things I can’t control was slowly killing me.”

“I did?”

“In your own way, yeah. Maybe it wasn’t what you intended, but you made me think. My point is, stressing out over whether you’re going to change isn’t going to stop it, if it happens at all. And if it doesn’t, you’ve wasted precious time being preoccupied.”

Meg settles against his arm, the tension gone from her muscles. “To think I pay a therapist when you’re doling out life lessons for free.”

“Maybe I missed my true calling.” Roger snickers. “Is it too late to change majors?”

When they step through the threshold of their apartment, Roger watches Meg slip off her white Keds near the door, and watches DB stretch out and settle back into sleep on the loveseat. He switches on the lamp behind the couch, expecting Meg to join him there for their nightly routine of watching TV before bed.

But Meg sidles up to him and presses herself against him. Certainly, she notices the hard, insistent thing against her thigh. “I’m asking,” she says, and Roger’s arm slides around her waist. He eases his hands underneath Meg’s shirt. He feels her reflexively twitch away from his touch, but she leans into it again, letting him draw the shirt over her head and toss it onto the floor. Roger looks at her. There is a fight within her, a struggle not to cover her scars.

They’ve had sex a few times since the incident, but always through their clothes, and always with Meg facing away from him.

“You want me to wrap it?” Roger lets himself be guided toward the bedroom.

“A nice bow will do.” Meg finds the waist of Roger’s slacks and unfastens them.

Later, as they lie in bed, Roger traces his fingertips over the long pink scars on Meg’s arm like he’s following a treasure map.

“See something you like?” Meg asks, sardonic.

Roger smiles and says that he does.

* * *

“ _Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you._ ” ~ Jean-Paul Sartre


End file.
